


Olden times and ancient rhymes of love and dreams to share.

by felixfvlicis



Series: 25 Days of Draco and Harry [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 18,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: A collection of holiday-themed one-shots.  In twenty-five chapters.  Updated daily.





	1. Beauty Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Written for [slythindor100's](http://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) 25 Days of Draco and Harry over @ LJ.
> 
> Visit my [LiveJournal](http://felixfvlicis.livejournal.com/4995.html) for a complete list of works.
> 
> Comments are ♥.

If Filius Flitwick was convinced of anything, it was that Christmas at Hogwarts was made for him.  Scents of cedarwood, eucalyptus and balsam wafted through the Great Hall, hundreds of white-gold lights reflecting against each windowpane, nearly as bright as the blue-tinged light from a lumos spell.  He swayed in time with the ting of the bells -- their melodies light and airy, floating towards tree branches and landing with ease as they whispered their last tiny note.  

 

For all of Flitwick’s joy, the Great Hall was empty -- the melodies of bells and half-song murmurs from the house ghosts reverberating off of the walls.  A few moments passed before Harry stepped through the double doors of the Great Hall, wearing a cranberry wool jumper with a golden  _ H _ knitted in the center, presumably a gift from Mrs. Weasley.

 

“Morning, Professor Flitwick.” 

 

“Morning, Mr. Potter!”

 

Harry walked toward the center of the Gryffindor table, clutching a piece of parchment and a charcoal gray quill that resembled the feather Sirius sent with his new firebolt last winter.  He was staying at Hogwarts this Christmas, in part, because of the looming threats of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and, simply because Remus was traveling with Sirius on holiday this year.   

 

He was just beginning to pick up his quill when the doors to the Great Hall whooshed open, welcoming a rather discontented Draco -- his face pale, brow furrowed as if he expected to have the place to himself this holiday.

 

Harry rolled his eyes as his train of thought was interrupted by Draco’s rather loud sigh traveling across the Great Hall.  Harry watched as Draco stalked to the Slytherin table, collapsing on the bench, propping both of his elbows on the table, the palm of one hand cupping his jaw, the other pressed against his forehead in frustration.  Draco  _ never _ put his elbows on the table.  Harry cursed himself for knowing that.

 

Intrigued, and having an uncanny ability to never know when to leave well enough alone, Harry shuffled quietly toward Draco until he saw his shadow reflected in the dark oak of the table.

 

“Malfoy?” Harry asked curiously, chancing a touch to his shoulder.

 

_ Why did he always feel the urge to touch Draco? _

 

He could feel Draco’s shoulders tense as he slowly turned around, his best  _ ‘you’re clearly bothering me, now, leave’ _ sneer directed at Harry.

 

“You know, if you’re not careful, your face could get stuck like that.”

 

“Yeah?  And what’s it to you, Potter?” Draco mumbled, the ‘P’ of Harry’s name laced with much less emphasis than he probably intended.

 

“Just passing along the information, is all.  I wouldn’t want your face to get stuck like that, because, erm, well, you’ve looked better.”

 

Draco raised his eyebrows at that, clearly surprised and mildly unnerved.

 

“Sod off, Potter.  I don’t need your useless information.  In fact, I’d quite like to be alone.”

 

Dejected and embarrassed, Harry dropped his hand from Draco’s shoulder before turning away.

 

The sound of shattering glass pulled Harry from his haze.

 

“Merlin!” Professor Flitwick cried, agitated as his gaze dropped to the shattered glass, looking sheepish.

 

“Gentlemen,” he called, his voice small, echoing through the Great Hall.  “Would you be so kind as to assist me with the rest of these ornaments?  You’ll quite like them, I’m sure.”

 

“Erm, sure, Professor,” Harry mumbled, “I’ll help.”

 

Draco planted his feet beneath him.  There was no  _ way _ he was moving.

 

“Malfoy?”  Harry called, his apprehension thick, like maple molasses for Christmas hotcakes at breakfast.  “You coming?”

 

Draco shook his head.

 

Nearly an hour passed as Flitwick and Harry were still at work.  Eventually, Draco turned to watch them, because, as he discovered, sulking had become as about as much fun as watching Crabbe moon over Pansy in the common room.  Flitwick excused himself momentarily, which left Harry, pieces of his bangs slightly damp with sweat, the faintest scent of cinnamon in the air.  Sometimes, when he reached high enough, the tail of his white button down would rise, revealing a small patch of skin above his hipbone, before becoming covered once more.

 

“You could just use magic, you know,” Draco said, matter-of-factly, “that’s what your wand is for, after all.”  He rolled his eyes.

 

A grin spread across Harry’s face before he turned to face Draco, one foot in front of the other on the ladder.

 

“I like doing it this way,” Harry confessed, his green eyes sparkling against the lights.

 

Just looking at him left Draco nearly breathless.

 

“Suit yourself, Potter,”  Draco mumbled before rising and passing Harry, moving quickly toward the doors.

 

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry drawled, “you sure you don’t want to hang this one?” 

 

Harry held a Slytherin-green star between his fingers, pushing it forward, nearly touching Draco’s chest.

 

“It’s your color,” Harry whispered, his eyes alive with mischief and sincerity.  

 

Draco swallowed, his cheeks coloring slightly.

 

“No thanks, Potter.  You look like you have it under control.” Draco responded softly, his decline nothing if not polite.

 

When Draco left, Harry cupped the green star ornament in his palm, nursing his bottom lip between his teeth, deep in concentration before he found the perfect spot to hang it -- his face alive with the anticipation of the season.

 

Later in the evening, Draco paced the courtyard in front of Hogwarts, green scarf bundled around his neck, his mind fraught with anxiety about how to respond to his mother’s invitation to host Pansy for Christmas.  Eventually, when he could no longer feel his toes, he stepped back through the entrance.  The doors to the Great Hall were cracked, the glow of the lights demanding his attention -- majestic, whimsical, sweet -- like something out of a fairytale.  

 

He stepped into the hall, captivated by the beauty in front of him when he noticed the ladder in the corner.  He walked up to the tree that Potter had been working on earlier in the day, his eyes settling on one particular coupling -- his Slytherin-colored ornament hung neatly beside Potter’s Gryffindor-colored one, not quite touching, though something about their position was familiar, comfortable.  And, until that moment, something that Draco never realized he could want.  

 

He turned to exit and began his walk back to the Slytherin common room, smirking all the while.


	2. You my dear, you are brilliant.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough night, Harry needs to rest. Who knew that watching Draco make plum pudding could be so hypnotic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Ron slammed his palm against the wood top, wincing as he downed yet another shot of firewhiskey.  Hermione’s tear-filled gaze and trembling lip was etched permanently into his mind, and he wanted to forget.  Her, the night, his very existence.

“Um, Ron,” Harry began, his voice cautious, “shouldn’t you slow down a bit?”

Ron shook his head vigorously before settling into a coughing fit.

Harry cleared his throat.

“All right, then.”

Three shots later, Ron was entirely incapable of speech -- soft, broken whines accompanied by childlike hand gestures -- small syllables of Hermione’s name tumbling from his mouth, numb and weighted.

Harry slung Ron over his shoulder, his body heavy with the weight of two as he sidestepped the other patrons, muttering embarrassed ‘excuse me’s’ under his breath.

After (quite literally) dropping him at Ginny’s, Harry apparated home to find Draco hovering over the kitchen range with his wand in hand, brows creased in concentration -- a small blue light illuminating the tip.  Draco was barefoot, wearing only charcoal flannel pajama bottoms, flesh colored slashes across his chest a quiet, cemented reminder -- he was destined for Harry.

He nearly fell asleep standing up, hypnotized by Draco’s movements -- sure hands, steady breathing, the graceful swish and flick motions of his wrist -- lulled by the soft clicks of the flame above the range.

“ _Harry,_ ” Draco murmured, “come here.”  His voice floated toward Harry like sweet red muscadine -- smooth, comfortable, laced with subtle hints of seduction.

Harry shuffled lazily in Draco’s direction.  The _need_ to feel wanted nearly overwhelmed him as his arms snaked around Draco’s torso, the warmth of his body threatening to pull Harry back into a hypnotic, sleepy state.

“I’m making plum pudding,” Draco whispered.  Harry smiled against his shoulder blades before placing open mouthed kisses on any patch of skin he could reach.  He felt Draco’s breath catch.

“Not until I’m finished, Harry.  This is sure to be the first of my many masterpieces this holiday season.”  Draco scolded, his voice tinged with false harshness, the undercurrent of laughter vibrating against Harry’s skin.

Early morning shone through the windows, as pastel ribbons illuminated the kitchen, the smell of brandy and raisins lingering, settling flush against the kitchen island, offering themselves willingly -- longing to be savored, a tiny piece of a holiday memory, lingering just beneath the earth each season.


	3. The magic of Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna swears there’s such a thing as Christmas magic.  Harry’s not convinced, though Draco may change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. The writer's block was _real_ with this one.

“Y’know, Harry, this place needs a little Christmas magic.”

“Christmas magic,” Harry paused mid-scoff, careful not to insult Luna, though he doubted she’d care much.

She studied Harry as they stood by the canteen in St. Mungo’s, waiting for hot coffee and warm tea.

He adjusted his glasses, sighing heavily, an attempt to release the built up tensions of working a fourteen-hour shift.

“Yes, Harry,” Luna whispered, “there is such a thing.”

He smiled weakly at her before responding.

“I haven’t seen it since I left Hogwarts,” his omitted words -- _before the war_ \-- levitated in the air, before shattering on the stone floor, a sound only Harry heard.

“It always shows up where you least expect it.  You’ll see.”

 

**━**

 

Chaos greeted Harry as he stepped through the front door of the Burrow.  Hugo and Rose were skipping about the house, memories of Harry’s mischievous youth woven into their shrill laughter.

“Harry!”

Hermione enveloped him in a nearly bone-crushing hug, causing him to stumble backward a few paces before he wrapped his arms around her neck.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” Harry whispered, before pulling out of her embrace and stepping further into the house.

“As you can see,” Hermione started, gesturing to the decor, “Molly decided on a yule theme this year.” 

The smell of roasted potatoes, rosemary, and braised beef pulled Harry into the kitchen before his eyes settled on the centerpiece Hermione was referring to.  The medium-sized yule log was covered in greenery, emanating the scents of pine, cinnamon, and bergamot.  Pinecones were placed beneath the greenery surrounded by the remnants of warm earth.  Holly berry couplets donned each end of the log -- crimson and cranberry tones resembling Ron’s cheeks when he’d been out in the cold for far too long.  Three candles anchored the log -- the shades of red and green reflecting their color in the lens of Harry’s glasses.

 

**━**

 

“What’s on your mind, Harry?”

“Er, it’s nothing,” Harry muttered, embarrassed that he’d been caught nearly burning a hole through the forest green tablecloth with his gaze.

Hermione smiled knowingly before taking her seat beside Ron at the table.

Bits and pieces of conversation stalled, then continued around mouths of food as evening faded, the sparkling stars a welcome reprieve.

After a full stomach and a bit too much mulled cider, Harry retired to the living room, to settle beside Hermione as she threaded her fingers through Ron’s hair, his back resting against her knees.

“Where is Draco this holiday?”

Harry sucked in a breath, twining his fingers together in his lap.

“He’s in France, visiting his mother.”

Harry hoped his answer was enough to quell her interest.

 

_Alas._

 

“I see,”  she paused.  Hermione’s pauses were never a good thing.  “I thought you may have invited him to come with you.”

Harry sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for the briefest of moments, palms flat against his thighs.

“We’re just friends, Hermione.  There’s really no need.”

“All right, Harry.”

 

**━**

 

The crackling of the fire lulled Harry into a state of near sleep, Hermione’s earlier words now faint echoes in his mind.  In truth, he thought it a bit silly that Luna still believed in the so-called magic of Christmas.  His life floated past him, a perpetual state of gray, dulled, insignificant.  He thought about the color gray, in his half-haze, his mind deciding to focus on the gray in Draco’s eyes -- challenging, bright, sparkling, full of mysteries longing to be solved, the joys of Hogwarts.

He’d had _way_ too much to drink.

After emerging from his holiday haze, leaving all thoughts of Draco and his ridiculously captivating eyes scattered like confetti beneath his seat on the sofa, Harry headed home with a takeaway box and a small gift for Draco at Molly’s insistence.

 

**━**

 

Nearly an hour passed before Harry crawled into bed.  As the minutes ticked by, he found himself in a war with his sheets, sleep completely eluding him.  He paced around the living room, cleaned the kitchen and managed to organize his drawers in the upstairs bedroom before his mind drifted back to Draco.  He wondered what France was like, specifically with Draco in it. He wondered if Draco was faring well with his mother’s constant companionship if his eyes sparkled as he laughed, deep and full-bodied, a hint of color creeping onto his cheeks -- the sound so warm and sweet that Harry could drown in it.

As he poured a cup of tea for himself, hovering over the kitchen range, pieces of his hair sticking up, held still by gravity’s sheer force, he knew -- he loved Draco Malfoy.  Maybe he always had.  Maybe he always would.

The sun nearly rose before Harry owled Draco his gift and an invitation to polish off Molly’s leftovers once he returned.

 

**━**

 

The insistent knock came two days later as afternoon melts into evening, hues of burnt oranges and violets coloring the atmosphere.  When Harry opened the door, a bundled up Draco greeted him, donning his knit forest green sweater with a small silver _‘D’_ knitted in the top left corner.  Molly understood his love of minimalism, after all.

Draco looked at him expectantly, though there was a hint of something else etched in his expression -- caution, uncertainty, optimism.  Harry stepped aside, ushering Draco in, the chill threatening to seize his bones.

The door barely clicked shut before Draco was flush against Harry, arms snaked around him in a tight embrace.

Harry immediately stiffened before breathing Draco in, the scent of peppermint and cinnamon loosening the threads pulling his muscles taut.  He smiled, his chin resting atop Draco’s shoulder.

“How was France?”

“It could’ve been worse.”

Harry swallowed, the whispered words gnawing against the flesh of his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Draco pulled away.  He looked at Harry the same way Hermione had days earlier as if he’d come to some life-altering realization about the two of them, simply _waiting_ for Harry to catch up.

“So am I.”

Draco smiled, slow and warm, ruffling Harry’s unruly strands of hair down with his fingers.

 

Maybe there _was_ such a thing as Christmas magic, after all.


	4. The beginning of the end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco end up in a familiar position at the sixth annual Secret Santa party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

 

“Draco,” Pansy mumbled, holding a bobby pin between her teeth, “stop being so uptight.  It’s going to be fine.”   

“That’s what you said last year,” Draco responded, voice a mix of dejection and annoyance “ _darling_.”

Pansy sighed, pulling her hair up into an elaborate braid, as her bangs swept across her forehead, nearly kissing her eyelashes.

“It wasn’t that bad and you know it.  You were just miserable because _Harry_ wasn’t there.”

It wouldn’t be the only time that night that Draco was rendered speechless.

 

▬

 

Neville was the first to arrive.  He’d replicated an elaborate spell that made the Three Broomsticks appear closed to anyone who wasn’t invited to their sixth annual “secret santa” gift exchange.  Harry and Ron arrived shortly after -- Hermione was conspicuously absent due to a prior commitment at the DMLE.

“Too bad she destroyed that time-turner McGonagall gave her,” The expression on Neville’s face changed as he spoke, morphing into the shy, frightened boy in Alastor Moody’s class during fourth year right before their eyes.

“S’alright, mate,” Ron offered a half-smile.  “She’ll make it next year.”

Luna and Pansy arrived next, draped on each other with pink cheeks and crimson colored lips, each of their free hands carrying bags of gifts.

Harry leaned against the bar in his navy jumper, looking rather uninterested as  conversations buzzed to life around him.  These gatherings were bittersweet, the celebration anchored in remembrance -- then and now.  Always connected, time be damned.

The front door dinged, signaling a new arrival.  Draco stepped through the door, cheeks tinged pink from the cold, wearing a grey jumper that made his eyes sparkle, like the moon’s reflection against a freshly fallen snow.  

Harry stared, lips slightly pursed.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.  

 

▬

 

An hour later, after two rounds of spiked cider, butterbeer, and firewhiskey, the real fun began.

Draco had loosened up considerably -- his legs outstretched underneath the table, fingers entwined, cradling the back of his head.  He felt warm, his neck tinged the faintest shade of pink, disappearing beneath his jumper.  Everything was easy.  

“All right, Harry,” Luna chirped, “it’s your turn.”  Pansy shot her a mischievous grin before pushing the wrapped gift toward Harry.

Draco watched him intently, with a gaze that only Pansy would recognize.  To everyone else, he appeared nonchalant.

Harry shook his head as a slow smile began to form on his lips.  There was something about opening a gift that reminded him of childhood - not his own, of course, but how it could have been  - innocence, anticipation, the rush of discovery.  

As soon as his gaze fell upon the black jumper, he coughed, face and neck colored with deep crimson splotches.  He could hear Pansy snicker on the other side of the table.  Luna’s eyes sparkled with delight, a soft giggle escaping her lips.

Harry pulled the jumper from the wrapping, staring first at the illustration, then the script underneath, hesitant to reveal its illustration to anyone else.  He released a heavy sigh, unwilling to prolong the inevitable.  Upon its reveal, Ron laughed loudly, slapping his hand on the tabletop.  Neville sat stock still, mouth agape.  Harry gulped.  Draco nursed his bottom lip and readjusted his posture, coughing weakly.  

“You _have_ to put it on, mate,” Ron breathed through his steady stream of laughter.

Pansy nodded.  Luna looked sheepish.

Draco stared.  Pansy _would_ buy Harry something like this.  He chanced a look at Harry - he looked completely flushed, running his fingers through his hair, stopping every so often causing pieces to separate, a hint of sheen to his lips.  Suddenly, the room was much too warm and crowded for Draco’s taste.  He lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing against his skin in frustration before pushing his chair away from the table.  He pulled at his sweater as he walked toward the loo.

▬

Harry breathed.

He sat, tapping his foot impatiently against the hardwood as more gifts were opened.  Eventually, Harry politely excused himself and headed to the loo.

As soon as he opened the door, the situation felt all too familiar, as if no time had passed.  Draco stood, his head bowed, hands gripping either side of the sink, though his breathing was quiet and even -- the sound pulling Harry further in.

“Well,” Harry began, his gaze focused on the floor, “that was thoroughly humiliating, don’t you think?”

Draco chuckled softly.

“Don’t be dramatic, Potter.  That’s my job, you know.”

Harry looked up, his slow smile warm and open -- a kindness Draco had never been privy to.  He tensed as Harry stepped forward, his hands buried in the pockets of his black jeans, the fabric hanging on his hipbones.  

“Would it kill you to call me Harry?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” Draco breathed, speechless, as the war resurrected itself, raging inside him all over again.

Because if he did, it would _mean something_.  Harry’s name tumbling from Draco’s lips would burn him from the inside out, slowly, charring his lungs to ash, the pain nearly unbearable until Harry kissed him back to life, his essence seeping into Draco’s bones -- rich, delicate and sweet -- like those fancy chocolates from France his mother used to buy for him when he was a child, decadent even when they’d melted in his trouser pocket.

Harry was still staring at him.

He exhaled heavily, the scent of peppermint and firewhiskey hanging in the air.

“ _Harry,_ ” Draco began, resigned to the inevitable, his fate.  “that jumper is absolutely dreadful.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Everglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eighth-year or sometime after. Both Harry and Draco deal with remnants of the war in different ways, though they find comfort and peace in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d. Mentions of war and its aftermath.

Draco opened the door, causing a small sliver of light to illuminate Harry’s figure.  He’d been in war again -- the wrinkles and creases in his sheets a steady whisper, pulling at his subconscious, demanding to be acknowledged.  Despite the thick layer of frost against the windowpane, a thin sheen of sweat settled in the dips and lines of Harry’s face.  Draco turned from Harry to the window, the faint glow of white light seizing his memory, images of Dumbledore’s free fall -- frail and vulnerable -- unfolding behind his eyes.

 

For the briefest of moments, Draco’s corpse resurrected itself, the dark mark anchoring him to the ground.  All the world was still.

 

Harry’s small whimper pulled Draco back from himself.  Suddenly, the room was much too damp, echoes of the past thrashing beneath their feet.

 

“Harry,” Draco whispered, pressing his lips against Harry’s temple.

 

Harry woke with a start, the peppermint lingering on Draco’s breath awakening his senses.

 

“Draco,”  Harry started, searching for Draco’s hand -- craving the familiar, the unexpected.

 

“Come with me.”

 

Harry followed Draco, shoulders tensing as they rounded every corner, still anticipating the threat of their downfall.  Their younger shadows followed behind them, flames illuminating their dance with fear, pulling it close, gripping its elbows, nearly giving in to its allure before pushing away in haste, embarrassed.

 

Draco inhaled sharply, closing his eyes.  A blue light surrounded the ornate lock on the door before it creaked open.  The scent of dust and day-old lilies filled Harry’s nostrils as he stepped into Snape’s old classroom.

 

“I’ve been using this space to brush up on my potions,” Draco admitted quietly, his cheeks coloring the faintest shade of pink, his gaze trained on the floor beneath him.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

There was a comforting richness to his question -- reminding him of earlier years, when he’d polish off a butterbeer, only to find the bottom caked with butterscotch syrup -- sweet and nostalgic.  Like home. _He knew Harry was smiling._  

 

Draco shrugged, though his eyes sparkled, cheeks still tinged pink.

 

Harry settled beside Draco, leaning against the wooden tabletop.

 

“I made this earlier,” he murmured, concentrating on omitting the _‘before I came to check on you’_ that threatened to tumble from his lips.

 

“It’s a variation of the calming draught.  Meant to conjure pleasant memories as one falls asleep.”

 

Harry blushed, nursing a jagged nail between his lips.

 

“It’s not ready yet,”  Draco spoke softly, placing the stirring spoon in Harry’s palm.  “You need to finish it.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened before he spoke.

 

“I can’t, Draco,”  he bit his lip.  “I’m rubbish at potions, don’t you remember?”

 

“I remember,” he confessed, a light chuckle escaping his lips, “you stole Snape’s book and robbed us all of the elusive felix felicis.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes.

 

“What would you have used it for, potions master?”

 

A chill zipped down Draco’s spine, popping against his skin.  The air was suddenly thick with suspended words.

 

He moved behind Harry, placing both hands on his hips, fingertips pushing into his skin.

 

“ _This_ ,” he whispered, his voice low and warm against the back of Harry’s neck.

 

As they stumbled into bed hours later, tangled limbs and whispered confessions settling into skin, the lights against the windowpane reminded Harry of the sea of wands, pointing upward, banishing the darkness from the atmosphere.  


	6. Hold on to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can't seem to repair the Black family tapestry. Draco makes hot cocoa and offers to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.   
> This one was a doozy. Fought me the whole way. All mistakes are my own. Hopefully, it isn't _too_ awful.

Harry sat cross-legged on the rug in Sirius’s room, dragging a nearly blistered, clammy hand across his face in frustration.  He’d been trying to fix the Black family tapestry for hours, the green in his eyes alight with determination -- continuous sparks of gold reflecting in his glasses.  Now, however, with Walburga’s wailing ceased, the cavernous pit deep within his chest opened its mouth, yearning to feed on his emptiness and regret.

 

_‘Harry, my boy,’_

 

Harry closed his eyes, soft exhales escaping his lips.  Sirius’s whisper brushed against his cheeks, aged and rough with loss, falling, settling in between newborn bits of stubble covering Harry’s jaw.  The urge to begin again grasped Harry’s heart, prying it apart to shape something new - full, crimson - droplets of blood puddling beneath what could have been.  His vision blurred, a transparent salty-film coated his glasses as he resisted the pleas to go back -- to be fifteen.

 

The sound of shattering glass pulled Harry from the cavernous depths within.

 

 _“Reparo,”_ Draco managed to grit out, pieces of the kitschy upside-down mugs they’d bought off of a street vendor in Muggle London littering the floor.

 

Scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and cocoa traveled up toward the rafters, burying themselves between the cracks of wooden beams above.

 

“You’re okay,” Harry whispered, breath catching as he watched Draco run his finger along a piece of jagged glass - a remnant of the snowman’s hand.

 

Draco regarded him quizzically as he pieced the snowman back together before his expression softened - eyes resembling heat’s touch against frostbitten winter skin - a tingling reprieve.

 

“It happened again, didn’t it?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

Draco moved closer to him, brushing a sugar-dusted thumb across his bottom lip, the base of his spine tingling as he watched Harry devour the crystallized pellets in one swift motion.  He never quite understood how the need to pull Harry free from the clutches of his ghosts could morph into something strangely erotic.

 

“You’ve got a bit of --” Harry murmured, swiping a finger across Draco’s cheekbone, the remnants of cocoa dusting lying atop Harry’s finger.  “there.”

 

Draco blushed.

 

“We should drink this before it gets cold.”

 

Harry offered up a small smile.

 

“Where were you, anyway?”

 

“ _Attempting_ ,” Harry began, the note of irritation melting away as soon as he tasted Draco’s latest creation, though a hint of defeat remained in his gaze, “to repair the Black tapestry.”

 

“Ah,” Draco murmured, voice echoing against his cup.

 

Their silence, as they polished off their cocoa, legs nearly entwined underneath the table, spoke volumes.

 

 

 

As evening dissolved into the atmosphere, giving birth to the deep plums of night, Harry and Draco climbed the stairs, fingers entwined, moving toward the tapestry room, fighting the urge to melt into each other.

 

Draco kneeled in front of the tapestry pulling his lower lip between his teeth before retrieving his wand, the combination of sharp and smooth, drawn-out syllables threatening to pull Harry into a sweet haze.

 

Walburga nearly woke, but Draco pressed on, strands of golden light repairing frayed threads, tethering them to another, the faintest of exhales enveloping them both - a cocoon of blessed release -- finally finished.

 

Draco felt the magic popping against his skin as he closed his eyes, a final stream of words tumbling from his lips.  Harry watched in astonishment as Draco repaired Sirius’s obscure shape -- the singed hole disappearing, surrounded by a stream of golden, sparkling magic.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, the sound of his name warm and sweet, like the half-melted pool of marshmallows floating beneath a sea of cocoa.  “How did you --?”

 

“ _Magic_ , Harry,”  Draco grinned, turning to face him, his eyes sparkling.

 

Later, as Harry traced his mark etched in Draco’s skin, the honest answer to Harry’s simple question tumbled from Draco’s lips, suspended in darkness.

 

“Before my father died in Azkaban, he made me collect his memories and take them to a pensieve.  One of his memories,” Draco sighed, a faint tremble in his voice, “was of the night Sirius was killed.”

 

Beside him, Harry stiffened.

 

“You deserve to be happy, Harry,” Draco’s voice trailed off, echoes of unspoken words thrashing against his ribcage.

 

Harry kissed him, then -- pulling Draco down into the depths of his mind, revealing memory after memory -- matches on the Quidditch pitch, hundreds of stolen glances in the back of classrooms, dimly lit corridors, hushed whispers inside the Great Hall, the walls of Hogwarts echoing years of their almost-moments.

 

The truth is, in these quiet moments with Draco, he _was_.  


	7. Just take my hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finally decides to let Harry in. Part one of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Harry shuffled down the stairs, wiping the sleep from his eyes with his forearm.  He needed a strong cup of coffee after last night.

 

_Draco hovered over Harry, mouthing sweet nothings against patches of skin, weighted words suspended in the air, holding their breath before the free-fall, sinking hard and fast into his veins.  Draco touched his skin with warm fingertips, pushing, the desire, the need to feel weighted to the earth, as if Harry were the only thing keeping him there, pulling him back from the atmosphere’s mouth -- her breaths frail and thin -- down into a cocoon of warmth, repairing the frayed threads that tethered them to each other.  Harry’s clipped breaths and half-mumbles as Draco moved just there, agonizingly slow, untangling elaborate webs of pain were constant, like Severus’s hand, planted at Draco’s side as he first learned how to properly mount a broom.  A skill his father never bothered to teach him, his ever-present absence the catalyst for Draco’s boyhood behavior, only, in the end, to be misunderstood._

 

_“Come away with me.”_

 

_“Anywhere, Draco.”_

 

  
Harry stood in the middle of the kitchen, his face covered in rose splotches, lost in last night’s memories.  He cleared his throat just as the keys jangled, the sound bouncing beneath the floor.

 

“I got us coffee,”  Draco breathed, pushing the door shut with his foot.  “It’s strong, don’t worry.”

 

Harry smiled.  Draco flushed, biting his lip.

 

“I’m going to need you to multitask today, Harry.”

 

Before Harry could utter the simplest of replies, Draco stood in front of him, coffee in one hand, the other occupied with smoothing Harry’s bed head, nursing his bottom lip between his teeth.  A moment passed between them, languid, threaded with desire.

 

“I’ve got big plans for us,” Draco whispered, his lips nearly brushing Harry’s before pulling away.

 

Nearly two hours later, both of them were adequately dressed.  Draco’s waffle-knit henley resting comfortably against his skin, the crisp ivory hue shielding him in warmth, safe from the world’s cold shoulders.  Harry donned a slightly oversized navy jumper, warm, rich and comfortable, his eyes reflecting the bright green leaves of spring, pulled into the depths of the ocean -- anchored, quiet reminders of nature’s beauty.  He managed to stuff a few extra things in a black rucksack he’d slung across his shoulder, just in case.  The endless days he spent with Ron and Hermione chasing horcruxes never forgotten.

 

Draco wrapped himself around Harry before the rush of apparition took hold.

 

The soft, muted noises surrounding them startled Harry, thawing his defenses, until he realized that he was still pressed up against Draco, feeling the metronomic thud of his heart, forcing Harry’s worry back into its rod-iron cage.

 

He looked toward the sky, its color resembling Draco’s eyes -- very much alive with hints of sparkling magic, in the dullest winter days.

 

“Welcome to Paris,” Draco murmured, pushing Harry back from him just so, only to meet his gaze, cheeks tinged the color of pink tulips after a soft spring rain.

 

Harry smiled, slow and easy, wrapping his arms around Draco’s neck, lips pressed against his forehead.

 

Draco exhaled, a vulnerable stream of air escaping his lungs, suspended and bound, Harry’s invitation to _see_ him, finally unconditional.

 

The faintest scents of autumn lingered around them for a moment before winter coaxed it away, the chilled blast reviving their dulled senses - the joy of new beginnings.


	8. The sands of time don't know our name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry sees Paris through Draco's eyes. Part two of _Paris Christmas_.

Harry _loved_ Paris.  There was something about the cobblestone streets, glistening with the first winter rain of the season, the quiet reverie of Draco’s hand in his, a welcome warmth laced with the sweetness of letting go.

 

He loved the ease with which Draco moved as they strolled, tension abandoning his body as he stole glances at Harry beneath the soft glow of lights, his mischievous half-smile reawakening the young boy Harry had always longed to know.  He wanted to devour Draco’s breathless laughter as they passed intricate holiday displays, nibble at the sweet-sugared blush that colored his cheeks at seeing the reflection of their tangled bodies in the window.  He wanted to pull Draco in, to soften the blow of sadness as his mother’s name fell from his lips in soft, breath-hitching whispers, to soothe his longing to lose himself in the sweet floral notes of her favorite perfume, perched beneath her lap, her arms knotted around his waist, _safe_.

 

Harry basked in the glow of evening, leaning into Draco’s warm embrace, thinking of Hogwarts, the inevitability of their lives.  They were destined to cross paths, the intricate patterns of their complicated adolescence too cemented to ignore.

 

Draco coaxed him along, gesturing toward intimate shops and landmarks, places that seduced him into surrendering _hours_ of his pre-war summers, where he’d dream of brushing his lips against patches of supple skin, melting into a strong embrace, calloused fingers carding through his white-blonde hair, longing to be wanted.

 

Eventually, their lazy sways and shuffled steps ceased as Draco pulled Harry into a corner sweet shop, the exterior painted a dark Slytherin green, nearly matching the emerald glint in Harry’s eyes.  The strings of tiny golden lights illuminated the window display, hints of sparkle reflected in his lenses.

 

“Welcome to _A la Mere de Famille_ ,” Draco murmured, the syllables sensual and sweet tumbling from his lips, his light touch guiding Harry inside.

 

A wall of sweets enveloped them, small delicacies nestled all about the shelves, the larger treats anchored behind.  The non-displayed items were delicately wrapped in transparent packaging, huddled together and tied with bright red ribbon, parchment-colored gift tags hanging from each one.

 

“This place,” Harry whispered, mesmerized, “puts Honeydukes to shame.”

 

Draco chuckled under his breath as he fixed his gaze on Harry -- intense, full of questions that he didn’t yet want the answers to.

 

“Things I never thought I’d hear _Harry Potter_ say.”

 

“There’s a first time for everything, Draco,” he replied, voice tinged with embarrassment, nudging Draco’s shoulder with his own.

 

Draco eyes sparkled when he stumbled upon the glass display case which housed his favorite shortbread cookies, labeled in elegant script, reminiscent of his late mother’s. He was still holding Harry’s hand.

 

Harry allowed himself to fall into the hypnotic sound of Draco’s _“Malfoy”_ voice as he ordered a dozen shortbread cookies to go.  He never noticed it before -- the subtle warmth laced beneath the precise clipped tones -- like coloring outside the lines, seductively consequential.  

 

Later, after they’d untangled themselves from each other in the small corner, sounds of their hushed laughter dissipating into the air, its remnants shuffling next to the small delicacies surrounding them, Draco led Harry outside.

 

Draco exhaled, handing the box of ribbon-wrapped cookies to Harry.

 

“Put these in your rucksack, will you?  There’s something I want to do.”

 

Harry obliged, his fingers brushing Draco’s before turning to place the cookies beneath the mass of knick-knacks littering his bag.

 

Draco bit his lip, eyes shifting from Harry to the misty cobblestones beneath his feet.

 

“Do you trust me, Harry?”

 

Harry stepped forward, brushing his fingertips along Draco’s jaw, warding away the faintest bit of hesitation that threatened to slither forward from the back of his throat.

 

“ _Always_ , Draco.”


	9. You tell me with your eyes what you need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco takes Harry home. Part three of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

No matter how many apparitions he endured, Harry would never get used to its sudden pull, the lazy landing as the world swayed around him before he stumbled to his feet.  Draco knelt in front of him, his familiar touch resting against the small of Harry’s back.

 

Harry smiled, remembering the late nights studying the Marauder's Map, his thoughts drifting from what Draco was " _up to"_ to _Draco_ , the boy who oozed jealousy, who longed to be chosen, admired, loved.  Sometimes, when his insides thrummed with tension, he imagined Draco’s slow, hardly sinister smile, the way he overemphasized Harry’s name, even hushed, the way he chased him around the Quidditch pitch, relentless.  Then, Draco was a rainstorm -- fierce and vulnerable, stinging droplets penetrating the skin, sucking its impurities clean, lingering, waiting for the exhaled release.  Now, Draco _was_ the release.  Harry loved him.  He always had.  

 

As he looked up to meet Harry’s eyes, tiny golden strands of hair tumbled forward, brushing his forehead just so.  Harry was speechless.

 

“You okay there?”  Draco asked, waiting for Harry’s permission, a broken exhale.

 

“Yeah, sorry, just --”  Unspoken longings threatened to tumble from his lips -- _can’t stop staring at you, can’t help falling in love with you, can’t help but wonder how we ended up here, still, after all this time._  “A little woozy.”

 

“Lucky for you, we’re here.”

 

The view was _spectacular_.

 

Harry and Draco stood side by side, leaning over the balcony illuminated with twinkling lights, the allure of suspended chandeliers hanging above whizzing automobiles pulling them in with soft whispers.  Their faint clinking sound reminding Harry of Christmas toasts at the Burrow.  Suddenly, he longed to take Draco there, the very thought of resting his palm beneath Draco’s thigh, moving in small circular motions every so often underneath the table as they ate, made his body thrum with electricity.  He reached for Draco’s hand.

 

“What is this place?”  Harry whispered, awestruck.

 

“When I left Hogwarts, to go home for Christmas,” Draco swallowed before beginning again, his voice thick, melancholy, a sigh falling from his lips, vanishing into the patent leather of his oxfords.  “I came here. _This_ ,” he gestured, turning his head to the left, the right, nearly brushing against Harry’s nose “was my home.”

 

“Have you been back?  Since --” _Since you watched Voldemort shatter into a thousand tiny pieces of confetti, since your mother died of a broken heart, since you said goodbye to your father in Azkaban._

 

Draco shook his head, unwilling to meet Harry’s gaze.  He chuckled, though his voice was stretched thin -- pain, regret, and longing pulling out from the core, the sound nearly broken -- Harry’s earlier words echoing in his ears.  “There’s a first time for everything, Harry,”

 

For the briefest of moments, Harry breathed deeply, tuning out the echoes of time and space, the twinkling blue lights familiar -- the light of their souls, the light from their wands -- beautifully damaged, stripped raw to be made anew.

 

“Let’s go,”  Harry coaxed, breath warm against Draco’s neck.  He longed for the gravity of everything, the simplicity of nothing.  To drown in the steady beat of noise, to float beneath the smooth pulses of silence.  “Show me everything, Draco.”

 

Draco let himself be led, as the tiny pieces of twine around his heart disintegrated into nothingness.

 

As they walked hand in hand through each of the rooms, _Malfoy_ reemerged, gesturing toward the obvious, leading Harry toward the more intricate details he was certain Harry would appreciate.  With his pursed lips and sparkling eyes, Draco had never seen someone so breathtaking.  His heart thudded and dropped, echoing against its cavity each time Harry offered him a lopsided smile, one corner of his mouth turning upward.

 

Eventually, they ended up in the wine cellar.

 

“ _Of course_ you’d have a wine cellar,” Harry teased, rolling his eyes.

 

“Hush up.  You know you love --” _Me._

 

Harry sucked in a breath.  Suddenly, the air was thick with tension.  The essence of mulled wine surrounding them must’ve crept into Draco’s veins, seducing his brain-to-mouth filter, the playful jab tumbling from his lips, uninhibited.

 

“We should have some, don’t you think?  Shame for all this fancy wine to go to waste.  When in Paris …”  Harry stumbled over his words, falling hard and fast, dissolving before they reached the ground, his cheeks, and neck the color of pink spring tulips.

 

Draco’s unease was written all over his face.  The space between holding on and letting go was so frayed, charred with regrets and mistakes, weighted and weightless -- the land of freedom and the chains for the damned.  

 

“We should.”

 

He couldn’t turn back now.   As the soft murmur escaped his lips, the realization hit him harder than that pesky rogue bludger in second year -- he never wanted to.


	10. He used to be mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking. Occlumency. Legilimens. Part four of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Draco _accio_ ’ed a bottle of red muscadine, two stemless glasses, and a miniature cauldron set from the kitchen before settling across from Harry on the living room rug, the soothing crackle and pop of the fireplace behind him.

 

Harry looked at him with a raised eyebrow, the slightest twist of his mouth.  As if he was stifling a laugh.

 

“Oh, Harry,” Draco tsked, wagging his finger, “don’t look at me like that.  Good wine is delicate.  If you want to taste the full, rich flavor on your tongue, it needs to be nurtured.  I’ll make it worth your while.  Trust me.”

 

Draco gulped, coloring at the innuendo behind his statement.

 

Harry said nothing in response, eyes glued to Draco, the air above them sweltering, thick with weighted words.  He was so focused, bottom lip pinned between his teeth, the wooden stirrer resting loosely in his grip, thin fingers curled around it just so, coaxing it into submission.  He was clearly meant for this.  Harry wished, in these moments, that he’d stolen more glances at Draco during their potions classes at Hogwarts.  Watching him was intoxicating.

 

Draco ladled wine into their glasses, the aroma of cinnamon, ginger, and berries longing to graze lips, waltzing into mouths -- swaying, twirling, flush against tongue’s taste buds.  Harry sipped slowly, watching Draco swallow, chin tipped back slightly, his adam’s apple pulsing just beneath the skin, nearly in sync with the thrum of Harry’s heartbeat, Soon, the room felt too warm, small, his mind buzzing with curious desire.

 

“You’ve done this before, then?”

 

Draco nodded.

 

“The night Voldemort recruited me to murder Dumbledore.  I sat in my childhood room and drank an entire bottle of the strongest wine my father had.  He’d notice if the stronger liquors went missing.  I wanted to die.  After that, I put my occlumency shield up.  It’s been intact ever since.”

 

Harry took a long swig of wine, tasting flavor’s first breath on his tongue before it died, muggy and bitter before he spoke again.  He’d give his life for Draco’s unconditional invitation - to drown in his magic, his last gasping breath immersed in scents of lemon, balsam, and peppermint before he surrendered to the darkness.

 

“Snape tried to teach me occlumency.  I was rubbish at it.”

 

“I know.  He told me.  I don’t know how you survived the Dark Lord.”

 

“Luck.”

 

“I hardly believe that Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived.”

 

“Do you believe in fate, Draco?”

 

Draco’s mistakes rose from their graves, the elaborate cobwebs they’d created falling from his bones, disintegrating in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I don’t know, do you?”

 

“I believe that this,” he began, pointing between the two of them, “is no coincidence.  We were meant …”

 

He stopped, shaking his head, waving off the unfinished sentence, glaring at its presence, an inconvenience.  Draco was staring at him, his mind piecing together the blanks -- _to meet, to fight, to love, for each other_.

 

“Harry,” he breathed, “come here.”

 

He placed Harry’s hand over his own heart, banging heavily against his chest.

 

“Earlier, you asked me to show you everything.”

 

Harry bit his lip.

 

“I meant --”

 

“I know,” Draco interrupted, words aching for release before his resolve slipped.  “I want to.  I’m ready,” _To show you everything, to give you everything, always._

 

_Legilimens._

 

Chaos blossomed behind Harry’s eyes -- Draco’s feelings, past and present, flowing through Harry’s veins at lightening speed.  Warmth reminiscent of butterbeer -- thick and sugarcoated, intricate webs of repression -- his sneers and scowls nothing more than a facade for desire, the sting of being misunderstood, longing to escape the hard press of his father’s walking stick digging into his shoulder, to abandon the Malfoy name and begin anew.  Though Draco was surrounded by bodies, warm-blooded and breathing, he always seemed to be alone, buried deep inside himself, the venomous whispers of his father encasing his magical core.

 

Harry saw so much of himself in Draco that it was almost too much to bear.  Images of the two of them emerged from his peripherals -- hundreds of almosts and never-enough's, whispered longings in the dark tumbling from freshly bitten lips, crumbling beneath the sheets.

 

One, in particular, caught Harry’s attention.

 

The night that snatchers brought him to the manor.

 

“I can’t be sure,” Draco whispered, kneeling in front of Harry, pretending to search his face for what he already knew, body paralyzed with fear.  His silent, child-like pleas for help  buried beneath bruises littering his body, the cavernous half-moons etched underneath his eyes.  He never wanted any of this.  He had no choice.  It never crossed his mind to give Harry up.  He’d cease to exist in a world without Harry, drowned in muddy waters of guilt.

 

Harry gasped, pulling himself out of the throngs of chaos.

 

Draco was rigid.  His palms were splayed out beneath his thighs, fingers trembling.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, brushing fingertips across his cheek.  “Come back to me.”

 

Draco exhaled, pushing himself off of the floor and into Harry’s arms.  The sudden rush of force caused Harry to tumble backward, flat on his back, the coarse fibers of the rug prickling his skin.

 

Draco leaned forward just so, trapping Harry’s body beneath his.  The feeling of Harry opening beneath him pushed him over the edge as he licked his way into Harry’s mouth, a breathy _I love you_ tumbling out from the depths of Draco’s body, resurrecting the young boy he mourned all those years ago.

 

“I suppose we didn’t need this,” Harry murmured, hours later, his lips nearly touching Draco’s as he pulled the crumpled mistletoe from his back pocket, the slightest blush coloring his cheeks.


	11. My heart has been stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part five of _Paris Christmas_. 
> 
> **(Apologies for the short chapter, time got the better of me today. I’m finishing this particular section of the series with something significant, and I need to give it the full attention it demands.)**

Draco pulled Harry into consciousness, placing soft kisses against his neck, trailing down to his collarbone, further still, sweeping down his bicep, savoring the salty warmth of skin.  Harry smiled, slow and lazy, before opening his eyes.

 

“Before we leave,” Draco began, “there’s something I want to do.”

 

“Mmmm, what?”

 

“You’ll see,”  Draco whispered, pulling himself free of the bed covers, padding toward the bathroom, shoulders weighted with tension despite the sway of his hips.

 

Harry could feel Draco’s smile from across the room as it reached him, nestling into the dark unruly strands of his hair.

 

When Draco emerged from the bathroom, he found Harry shirtless, hovering over a dresser drawer, fingertips clawing against neat stacks of clothing, jeans hanging loosely on his hips, belt buckle undone, holding his lower lip between his teeth.

 

Draco cleared his throat, shivering at the sensation of minuscule water droplets traveling down the nape of his neck, his white-blonde hair drenched, resembling the color of Harry’s favorite fall ale.

 

He watched Harry move around his adolescent room, slow and easy, like the warmest spring breeze, succumbing to summer’s seduction, leaving the faintest scent of tulips and champagne behind.  It reminded Draco of the almosts, the graveyard of moments too elusive for him grasp, dissolved before he could speak.  The very thought that Harry may no longer elude him, that he could want this too, was almost too much.

 

“Your drawers are meticulously organized,” Harry huffed, exasperated.  “It’s maddening.”

 

“Did you honestly expect anything less?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, shuffling over to Draco, hands resting on either side of his hips.

 

“Right,” Harry breathed, smiling against Draco’s mouth, body alight with electricity, waiting for Draco to let go.

 

Kissing Harry kept him tethered to the earth, the taste of his lips a quiet reminder that second chances do exist.  It was as easy as breathing.  

 

They made their way outside just as the morning gave way to the balmy winter sun, gazing at the clusters of bright red berries nestled in the holly bushes they passed, Harry’s eyes sparkling with wonder as they walked together along the cobblestone sidewalks, swaying in time with the Christmas melodies of Hogwarts etched in their memories -- warm, familiar, infinite.


	12. Before I knew which life was mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part six of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

“Wait,” Draco breathed, his cheeks tinged pink as he turned to face Harry, bringing his hands up to adjust his scarf.  His eyes sparkled with childlike mischief, heart thudding just beneath his rib cage as he stole a glance at Harry.

 

Harry laughed softly, small puffs of air escaping his lips, so sweet Draco could nearly taste it -- the crispness of a freshly picked apple from the throng of trees in the manor gardens, savoring the first bite, an expression of surprise etched on his face at the sensation of the tart juice trailing down his chin before swiping his finger underneath, catching the remnants and sucking them dry, pleased with himself.

 

“This reminds me a bit of third year.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

Harry paused, a smile playing at his lips before continuing, “Watching you scurry off screaming was quite hilarious.  You nearly knocked Flint and Crabbe out cold.”

 

Draco eyed him quizzically, his index finger resting softly against the corner of his mouth.  Harry blushed, teeth bouncing against his bottom lip.

 

“You -- how?”

“Invisibility cloak.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible, an expression of strife brushed across his face.

 

Harry moved closer as the urge to touch Draco overwhelmed him, like the warm burst of air that hits after coming in from the cold -- resuscitating a barely beating heart, life seized by its clutching grasp.

 

A ball of snow popped him in the forehead, its pieces disintegrating beneath the lens of his glasses that left him swimming in a sea of white.

 

“Draco,” Harry warned, pulling his glasses off and charming them clean.  “I’m coming for you.”

 

The routine felt too familiar -- both of them stumbling to dodge each other’s stings.  Though, the universe clearly had a sense of humor, turning their sixth-year war in the boy’s lavatory on its head -- their laughter vibrating earth’s white blanket, echoing off of the tree branches above, nearly falling against each other, loose and open, radiating warmth.

 

Harry stumbled into Draco’s thin, solid frame, knocking him down with a soft thud, ghosting above his body, buzzing yet still elusive.

 

“I remember,” Harry breathed, his words tingling before melting into Draco’s lips, “the way your hair glistened if you turned just so.  I’d never seen anything more curious.  I imagined you like that for years -- tenuous, glowing.  A shadow of something I may never catch.”

 

Draco swallowed heavily before mouthing softly against Harry’s jaw, licking a thin, feather-light stripe down Harry’s throat, flesh warm and unexpectedly sweet against his tongue.

 

“And look at you now.”

 

Harry grinned.  Seeing Draco laid out underneath him made his skin tingle.  He felt weightless, invincible, as if he were nearly touching the outlines of clouds, exhilarated, like flying for the first time.    

 

He shifted his weight just so, tumbling off of Draco before pulling him up to his feet.

 

“Draco,” he whispered, carding a chilled hand through Draco’s glistening hair.

 

“I won’t leave you,”  Draco murmured, resting his forehead against Harry’s.  “Trust me, Harry.”

 

He nodded, his body tensing as he felt Draco pull something from his coat pocket.

 

“Close your eyes.”

 

Instinctively, Harry took a step back.  The loss of Draco’s touch sending his mind into a near-frenzy, flashbacks of the fiendfyre creeping forward, before settling heavily in opposite corners of his jumbled cortex.

 

Draco placed the slightly padded wooden handle in Harry’s palm, closing each of his fingers carefully around it.

 

Harry’s mouth twisted into an expression of curiosity.  He swallowed thickly, saliva coating his windpipe.

 

Draco leaned forward, his lips brushing Harry’s earlobe, his warm whisper pulling Harry’s senses taut, causing his body to thrum with tension.

 

“Open them, Harry,”

 

Harry wanted to drown in the sound of his name tumbling from Draco’s lips, reminiscent of his mother’s atmospheric whisper floating through the spring trees, rustling the autumn leaves, the slightest hint of longing, hypnotic and vibrant -- like honeyed peppermint -- comforting and new.

 

It was then that Harry realized he was irrevocably loved.


	13. The way our horizons meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's freedom in flying. Part seven of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Harry nearly stumbled backward when he opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the light touch of his palm circling the broom handle.  He inhaled sharply, attempting to quiet the chaotic magic flowing through his veins, memories flashing behind his eyes, whizzing past, echoes of laughter tangled with anguish, as Draco’s name tumbled from his lips.

 

“There’s an inscription on the underside of the handle,” Draco murmured, guiding Harry’s fingers slowly over the silver lettering with his own.  “Just here,” He held his breath, waiting for the tide to roll in and pull him under, enveloped with Lucius’s cutting whispers, hisses of disappointment and pity throbbing with want, poised to enter Draco’s bloodstream.

 

Harry’s eyes roamed over the curvy letters, rising and falling depending on which way the broom handle was turned.  The silver matched Draco’s eyes perfectly.  His breath caught in his throat.

 

“I know it’s been awhile since you’ve flown,” the words tumbled from Draco’s lips to fill the empty space surrounding them, the slightest hint of fear creeping into his veins, a warning, perhaps, he should have heeded, though he knows he’s been destined for this moment since he laid eyes on Harry at the tender age of twelve.  “Is it too --”

 

“It’s perfect, Draco,”

 

When Harry met his eyes, Draco could make out the slightest hint of tears prickling against the lens of his glasses.  Harry coaxed Draco toward him with his free hand, before placing a soft kiss against his lips, dissolving the rolling tide’s threat to pull Draco down into the depths of his past.

 

“Come on,”

 

Harry suddenly felt emboldened.  He could be anyone, do anything, so long as Draco was by his side. He mounted the broom cautiously, shivering at the sensation of Draco’s hands snaking around his waist.

 

“Familiar, huh?”  Draco teased lightly, the slightest hint of desire coating his words as they landed against the back of Harry’s neck.

 

Harry closed his eyes, longing to drown in the steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing.

 

“When we were kids, I loved watching you fly.  You made it look so easy.  I nearly came undone each time that slow smile crept across your lips as you nearly touched the atmosphere.  I felt my magic come alive beneath my skin like I was weightless, invincible, free.  I’ve never managed to recreate that feeling.  It’s you, Harry.  Always.”  

 

Draco gasped as Harry pulled the broom upward, the gust of winter wind pushing his skin in on itself, the slight sting keeping him tethered to reality.  Instinctively, he pulled Harry tighter as they brushed against the clouds, crawling closer to atmosphere’s edge, the taut pressure pleading for their descent.  Freedom reacquainted itself with Draco, its touch warm and smooth against his chilled skin, sucking the tension in his muscles dry.

 

Harry kept his eyes closed as he flew, a small tidbit he’d never reveal to Draco, as he searched for the broom’s heartbeat, awaiting its guiding pulse, the pad of his thumb caressing Draco’s inscription.  As he twisted and turned, sunlight illuminated the letters just so, reflecting the brightest hint of silver in the clouds, cradling the last word that fell from Severus Snape’s lips.  Always.

 

The landing pulled Draco from his reverie as he kissed freedom goodbye, clutching its torso as if he were seven years-old again, pleading with his mother for another bedtime story, full of crippling fear that she’d vanish the moment she turned from him.

 

Harry pushed into him, his dark-haired nest nuzzling against Draco’s jaw, coaxing him into letting go.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered.  Draco smiled at the feeling of Harry’s muscles contracting and expanding beneath his hands.  “Come with me,”

 

Before they retired to their suite, Draco snuck into the basement kitchens to plunder a medium-sized mincemeat pie.  In times like these, he adored wandless magic.

 

“Show off,” Harry muttered before twining their fingers together and retreating upstairs.

 

Their chilled, stiff clothes littered the floor, a mismatched trail leading to the bathroom.  The oversized clawfoot tub nearly overflowing with mountainous bubbles, reminding Harry of the bath Cedric suggested he take during fourth year.  Remorse tugged gently on his heart before Draco pressed his hand against Harry’s chest, leaning forward, kissing him languidly, fighting the urge to push further.

 

“Here,” Draco breathed, holding a small bite of pie between his thumb and index finger.  Harry closed his mouth around the bite, teeth grazing Draco’s skin, the essence of salt and mint mixing with the tart fruits exploding against his tongue.

 

“I wish Hermione still had her time-turner,” Harry mused, wanting to stay in the comfort of this seemingly infinite moment forever.

 

Draco smiled, the faintest of chuckles escaping his lips.  He’d keep his secret for a rainy day.


	14. I'll lead you back home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion of _Paris Christmas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> What an experience this has been. I’m truly sad to see them leave Paris, but I'm excited to see what lies ahead.

By the time Harry and Draco made it to the bed, they could barely move.  Early morning tugged against night’s silhouette, longing for a reprieve from loneliness.  A trail of wet footprints zig-zagged across their suite, the inches between each step enveloped with memories of Harry’s breath ghosting against Draco’s neck, trapping him with his body flush against the wall, his fingers burning with desire just as he touched the scars across Draco’s chest, his breath hitching, eyes falling closed.  Before he tumbled over the edge, Draco thrust himself against Harry’s torso, knocking him off balance for a moment as thin, smooth fingers gripped his biceps, walking him backward until his head hit the wall with a muted thud.  Draco’s smile was slow as he gazed at Harry, the nearly sparkling silver in his eyes resting beneath a seductive abyss.  He pushed Harry’s hair back, revealing the patch of scarred forehead, barely tracing it with the shriveled pad of his index finger - the coldest of chills pulling at the base of Harry’s spine, causing him to shiver, alive with warm desire.

 

Remnants of teasing touches littered the floor, a thin, damp line pushing across the middle of the hardwood a few paces later, a stream thick with want, threatening to tumble over, the soft touch of Harry’s tongue trailing down Draco’s throat sending him sliding to the floor, hands seemingly suspended in the air, fingers curled under, as if he were twelve again, struggling to grip the arms of the Hogwarts staircases as they moved, pulse throbbing beneath his wrist.

 

It was Draco who pushed Harry onto the bed, pinning his scarred arms above his head, settled between his thighs, the scar of his dark mark visible in the strip of moonlight illuminating their bodies.

 

“If you wanted to tie me up,” Harry whispered, voice rough with want, the scent of cinnamon resting on his tongue, “you should have come prepared,” he tipped his chin toward Draco’s empty suitcase.

 

“ _Oh, Harry_ ,” Draco tsk’ed, shaking a finger at him.  “You underestimate me,”

 

Before Harry could even think of shifting, Draco hissed a short incantation, pulling himself back.  Harry’s arms were still pinned above his head.

 

“And I _am_ prepared.  To make you _wait_.”

 

Harry bit his lip, giving birth to the tiniest drop of blood, warm and coppery against the rose-colored flesh, attempts to calm his rapid heartbeat failing.

 

“Shhh,” Draco whispered, “let go, sweetheart.”

 

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, giving in to the melodic warmth of Draco’s voice, the ease of his roaming hands, the cool, soft pads of his fingers soothing Harry’s sweltering skin.

 

Draco kissed him openly as his exhaled _‘I love you’_ fell into Harry’s body, scattering like sweet rose seeds, the beginnings of their little secret garden birthed in the hollow cavities between his ribs - vines of evergreen sustaining their beauty.

 

Hours later, with Draco’s head resting against his chest, his white-blonde hair kissed by the early sunrise tinged with burning orange, petal pink and lilac, Harry whispered a shaky _‘I love you, too’_ against Draco’s mouth, the gravity of his confession seizing his body until he felt Draco open for him, all-consuming and sweet, weightless, reminiscent of the wonders of childhood.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, lips pressed against Harry’s shoulder, an attempt to coax him awake.  “We have to go,”

 

“Mmmm, time needs to slow down.  Don’t want,” he whined, burying his face into the down pillow.  “To leave.”

 

Draco threaded his hands through Harry’s black nest of hair.  He looked so like a child in these moments, as if he’d stepped backward into an alternate universe, melting into the life he was always meant for -- full of tender nostalgia, lily-scented whispers dissolving into his hair before he drifted off to sleep, dreams of flying on an endless journey, swaying through the clouds.

 

By the time Harry woke, the room was significantly brighter and smelled of ginger, the slightest chill sweeping the ends of white curtains off of the floor, dissolving before it reached his bare skin.

 

“Good afternoon, you,” Draco greeted around a bite of gingerbread cookie.

 

“Mmmm, hi,” Harry muttered, wiping the sleep from his eyes, attempting to smooth his hair.  “Smells good.  Where did you steal those from?”

 

“I didn’t _steal_ them.  I seduced them into falling into the warmth of my overcoat pocket.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

 

“Okay, fine,” Draco huffed.  “I used wandless magic again.  I got hungry, waiting on you to grace the rest of Paris with your presence.”

 

Harry sat up, adjusting his glasses so that they were perched evenly against the bridge of his nose, reaching for a cookie from the ivory white platter cocooned atop the duvet.

 

Draco swatted his hand away, picking a piece off and holding it between his fingers -- an offer -- of himself -- to Harry, similar to the previous night.

 

“I never pegged you for such a romantic, Draco,” Harry confessed, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

 

“Always the tone of surprise.  And,” Draco inhaled sharply as Harry’s lips closed around his fingers.  “When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. _Romance and beauty_ , Harry,”  the slightest hint of a tease in his voice.

 

Harry swallowed, the sugary-spice coating his throat.  He smiled before leaning forward, the soft touch of his lips against Draco’s pushing him into safety’s warm embrace, surrounded by the faintest scent of lilies and rose.


	15. I'll do it all for you in time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco apparate back to London, memories of their Parisian adventure fresh on their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Harry bit his lip as Draco pulled him through the forcefield of magic, the unsteady feeling anchoring his core making him wince.  Suddenly, the world stopped moving.

 

“Well,” Draco hummed, his shoulders tapping against the paned glass of the telephone booth, attempting to free himself of Harry’s near-death grip, managing to shove his left hand into his trouser pocket.  “This is certainly interesting.”

 

Harry’s eyes remained squeezed shut.

 

“Draco,” Harry murmured, voice thick with unease.  “ _Please_ tell me the reason that we stopped moving is because we’re home.”

 

Draco chuckled, the warmth of peppermint enveloping Harry’s senses.

 

“Kind of.”

 

“What do you mean, _kind of_?”

 

“See for yourself.”

 

Harry took a deep breath before opening his eyes.  He and Draco were chest to chest, bright-red wreathed around them, the interior of a London telephone booth reflecting in his glasses.  The windows were caked with freshly fallen snow.  If Harry wasn’t so focused on attempting to calm himself, a hint of a smile would’ve formed across his teeth-bitten lips, memories of Draco stumbling in the Parisian snow, tiny flecks of white twined through strands of blonde hair, sparkling against a gray sky.  The slightest blush would color his cheeks at the image of the two of them melting together on the cobblestone sidewalk, swaying lazily, resisting winter’s chill, the faint beating of Draco’s heart settling just underneath Harry’s jumper, resting against his shoulder blade.  In those moments, separation ceased to exist.

 

Sensing Harry’s rising panic, Draco pulled him closer still, whispering against his ear, mouthing at the tender flesh of the lobe just so.  “Trust me, Harry,”

 

Harry swallowed, pulling at Draco’s forearms, the slightest sheen of sweat birthed on his palms, intersecting lines of heart and fate.  He managed a small nod, resting his forehead against Draco’s as his eyes fluttered closed.

 

He felt Draco’s magic spark to the surface, warm and electric, its pull enough to lull him into a sense of calm - tangled in the atmosphere, gazing down at the Quidditch pitch, the spicy autumn air flowing through his veins - a prelude to the sweetest solitude, the elusive feeling of home, one that would eventually tether itself between the faint lines etched in Draco’s lips.

 

The soft landing of his feet against charcoal stone caused Harry to open his eyes.  He brushed his tongue across his dry lips, gaze focused on Draco’s black lashes, admiring their slight upward wisp, cradling echoes of sweet nothings murmured beneath crisp white sheets as night coaxed morning awake.

 

He let go of Draco’s forearms, sucking in a breath upon seeing the small u-shaped indentations he’d birthed.  Yet another mark Draco had to bear, however temporary.  Draco opened his eyes to a vast emptiness, the ghost of Harry’s presence swaying all around him.  Steady hands snaked around his torso, coaxing him backward and around, until he was leaning against the balcony railing of their modest London flat, the dull air birthing an ache in his chest.  He longed for the sweetness of Paris.

 

“I miss it too,”

 

Draco settled against Harry’s body at the quiet admission, his hands resting atop Harry’s, thin and slightly cold.

 

“It’s breathtaking in the spring,”

 

He felt Harry’s smile against his shoulder blades.

 

They stood there, hovering above the quiet buzz of London, as afternoon conceded to evening - the sky melting into the faintest shade of lilac and rose, tinged with bits of burnt orange, its sweet warmth chasing away winter’s gloom - echoes of Parisian whispers falling against their entwined hands, traveling through Harry’s bloodstream, their secret garden’s foundation.


	16. Giving it all back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco travels to London in search of a Christmas present for Pansy. What he discovers, however, is that his past is inescapable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> This is separate from the _Paris_ series, a piece all its own, though I think I may continue on this path for a bit.

Draco shuffled down the sidewalks of London, hands deep in the pockets of his charcoal gray peacoat, an old house scarf lying snug against his neck.  The faintest scent of clementine seeped through winter’s sharp edges, reviving the almost week-old snow slushed into the crevices of the sidewalk, its crisp crunch filling Draco with an odd sense of peace -- one he still wasn’t sure he deserved.  Ever since Pansy had gotten together with Ron -- _of all people_ \-- she’d grown more interested in tiny rustic corner shops, which is how he’d ended up here, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, less than a week before Christmas, scanning each intricate window display for the item that would pull him in -- its allure undeniable and oh-so-perfectly Pansy, stinging his skin with the slightest hint of nostalgia, savoring the innocence of what used to be.

 

A young child’s laughter from across the street pulled him from his thoughts.  The screech pierced his ears, the timbre of her voice so much like Bellatrix as she skipped through the halls of Hogwarts, the ringing of glass as it shattered against the oak tables, mourning the fall of their fearless, evanescent leader.  His home decimated.

 

A ghostly shudder pulsed just beneath his taut skin, causing his eye to twitch.  Nearly five years had passed since that fateful night, though the gravity of his mistakes still anchored him to those memories, its chain twined with guilt and regret.

 

The faintest of breezes drifted by, encircling him with the scent of clove, a hint of cranberry kissing his skin before he heard the hushed whisper, rough and not-quite-broken --

 

> _Years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices_

 

He swallowed, reigning in the tears that were threatening to prickle in his eyes.  His face was splotchy, the atmosphere radiating heat, scowling at him.  This was predestined, his burden to bear.  He turned his gaze upward, desperate for a momentary reprieve.

 

It was then that he noticed the bookshop, nestled in a throng of buildings, unique all its own. The foundation resembled the weathered bricks of Hogwarts, the way the sun would reflect against them, gazing down from the heights of the Quidditch pitch, releasing ribbons of daybreak, restoring its majesty.  Tiny white-quilled illustrations were etched in the window, tugging at Draco’s heartstrings -- reminding him of the letters he used to write to mother, tinged with hope -- beckoning him inside.

 

He crossed the street with intent, as if he was chasing a golden snitch, curving and tumbling, hovering just above the ground.  His senses came alive when he stepped through the door, the smell of fresh parchment and carved wood enveloping him, reminiscent of the Hogwarts library, endless afternoons and evenings of losing himself in potions, charms and occulmency textbooks, holding the world in the palm of his hand - the rush of endless possibility, sweeter than any press of lips against his own.  The sound of his oxfords clicking against the hardwood made him long for a time turner, clutching those long-lost feelings of importance before they slipped through his fingers, elusive -- head held high as he strolled about the halls of Hogwarts, if for no other reason than he _knew_ what it felt like to belong, even for the briefest of moments.

 

Endless walls of books vied for his attention as he nearly bumped into shelves housing more books behind him.  Milk crates littered several corners, a rustic home for vinyl records, huddled together to banish winter’s chill.  Minutes ticked by, birthing hours.  By the time he shuffled toward the front -- unsatisfied with the prospect of leaving -- afternoon had disappeared beneath the clouds, the blue-black ink of night painting the night sky, heavy strokes and uneven lines allowing the slightest sparkle from just-deceased stars to hang suspended in the atmosphere, longing for immortality.

 

He turned toward the door, hipbone pressed against a caramel colored island, upon hearing the bell’s reverberation soft, sweet, lingering, signaling the arrival of another patron.  Something about the young man’s body was oddly familiar, intimate as if Draco had traced patterns against pale skin in the moonlight.  He could almost feel the curve of the man’s calloused fingers gripping his hips, pulling him down, a hint of clove brushing his cheek just before he mouthed at Draco’s neck.  It wasn’t until the young man stepped backward two paces, that Draco was certain - the unruly nest of black hair unmistakable, taunting him with almosts and never enough's.  Harry Potter was inescapable.


	17. Your strange imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 16. Harry and Draco are seized by past memories, though new ones are birthed in the most unexpected of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, _Granger and Co._ is a real coffee shop.

Harry’s piercing green eyes scanned each shelf of the bookshop, searching for that perfect something he’d lost years ago, along with the rest of their classmates, remnants of their childhood buried beneath the Hogwarts rubble.  His eyes flitted from left to right, focusing for the briefest of moments before moving upward, the white-gold tint of light from the ceiling highlighting the small nubs of black stubble forming on his jaw.  He was wearing the same camel-colored jacket from the night he defeated Voldemort, spelled just a size larger.  His black jeans hung low on his hips, fabric bunching at the knees before smoothing out, clinging to his ankles, like chains, a constant reminder that he would always be the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice.  To the outsider, he looked much the same as the boy Draco knew years ago.  Draco, ever the observer, noticed something else.  The way Harry shoved his hands deep in his pockets, curving underneath the fabric as if he was reaching for his wand, a momentary look of disappointment sweeping across his face upon the realization that nothing was there.  Watching him was hypnotic and entirely agonizing.  Draco struggled to breathe.

 

His hip was beginning to ache from leaning against the front counter for what seemed like years.  When Harry walked in, he’d pushed his full weight into the glossed oak, feeling too weightless, nearly swept away like the last of autumn’s leaves at the sight of him.  He was drawn to Harry - warm, glowing, safe and elusive - like the Patronus he so longed to conjure, but couldn’t, even after all of these years.  The pressure against his hip ceased, causing him to sway slightly before he took his first step toward the wall, the faintest shuffling sound of oxfords against the hardwood as he walked, focused on Harry’s reflection in the window display.

 

He stood just behind Harry, gaze focused on the nape of his neck, the birthplace of his famous nest of black hair.  He felt familiarity pull at him again, certain that his breath had ghosted along that patch of skin before placing a soft kiss in his hair, the earthy scent of balsam enveloping him.  As if he’d been doing it all of his life.

 

“Potter,” Draco murmured, still spellbound by reverie.

 

He watched as Harry’s back muscles tensed, his sharp intake of breath hardly audible.  Years passed between them.  Memories flashed behind Harry’s eyes of the last time they were in a bookshop, bearing the sins of their elders, jealousy and vehemence coloring their clipped words, disguising desires that would birth years later, from the depths of their bodies, all-consuming, time’s sinister smile holding their feelings prisoner, its iron shackles inescapable.  Harry turned his head just slightly, looking over his shoulder at Draco, a look of shock and relief scurrying across his features, dissolving in the fabric of his jacket.

 

“Draco?”

 

A nod, the hint of a smile, eyes sparkling and luminous.  He’d noticed Harry’s slip.  The way his first name fell from Harry’s lips with ease, almost melodic, reigned in by the atmosphere, suspended above them, tinged with hope.  Pieces of a memory resurrected.

 

Harry’s shoulders relaxed as he turned to face Draco, though his expression was still colored with a hint of unease.

 

“How have you been?”  Harry nearly cringed at the stiff formality, cursing himself silently.  He should have offered his hand, or at the very least, a smile.  His faculties were seized the moment he looked at Draco.  The longing he buried in his cavernous body echoing, slowly resurrecting itself, after nearly suffocating from half a lifetime of waiting.

 

If Draco noticed his stiffness, it went unacknowledged.

 

“All right, I suppose.  I hear you’re quite busy these days, despite your longing for anonymity,”

 

Harry nodded.

 

Draco noticed his quizzical look and began to speak quickly, still careful not to stammer, “Not that I keep up with you or anything, but Pansy,”

 

“Ah, yeah.  Who’d have thought, right?  The two of them.”

 

“Opposites do attract, you know,”

 

Harry blushed, absentmindedly nursing his bottom lip between his teeth.  Draco stared at him, caught between wanting to stay in the heaviness of this moment yet eager to move along, earlier images of his fingertips pressing against Harry’s hip bones occupying his mind, buzzing with desire for an answer to the question that threatened to fall from his lips -- _was it ever real_?

 

“We should, um,” Harry murmured, tipping his head toward the door.  Draco hadn’t noticed it was five minutes past closing, the obvious reason for the shop keeper's impatient glare.

 

Draco nodded, turning on his heels.  Harry’s eyes transfixed on his long, thin fingers as they curled around the door handle with ease as if it was melting into his embrace.

 

“After you,” he whispered, the scent of peppermint stinging Harry’s ear as he passed.

 

London buzzed to life around them as they shivered, winter’s chill searching for warm bodies to latch onto.  Harry’s neck and knuckles immediately tinged pink.

 

“Here,” Draco offered, his soft murmur laced with mint and honey, hypnotizing Harry’s senses, his eyes fluttering closed.

 

A warming charm enveloped them, pulsing against Harry’s skin, resurrecting his brittle bones, coloring his dull, war-ridden world.  Instinctively, he moved closer to Draco, until they were shoulder to shoulder.  The smallest gesture of surrender.

 

Draco cleared his throat but offered no objections.

 

The sensation of weightlessness that accompanied surrender was sweet and easy, like mounting a broom for the first time, or ghosting along the black lake settled on Buckbeak’s back -- arms outstretched, gazing toward the heavens.

 

“Would you like to --” Draco began, stealing a glance at Harry, suddenly bashful.

 

“Yes.”

 

Draco chuckled, endeared by Harry’s eagerness, relieved to escape vulnerability’s nudge.  Still, he was hesitant to move forward, unsure of his path.  Harry must’ve picked up on his unease, a steady hand wrapping around his forearm.

 

“There’s a coffee shop not too far from here that I’m sure you’ll love,”

 

Twenty minutes later, they ended up in front of _Granger and Co.,_ a slate gray building with muted yellow awnings, the glow of white chandeliers reflecting in Harry’s glasses.

 

Draco raised his eyebrows at the name, looking at Harry quizzically.

 

 _“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Draco, it’s merely coincidence,”_ Harry murmured, imitating Hermione’s exasperated tone, his free hand gesticulating through the air.

 

Draco laughed -- free and warm.  The hint of mint escaping from his mouth sweetly subdued.  Harry was drowning in it, cursing the need to breathe.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Harry nodded, letting Draco lead, surrendering another piece of himself, the beginning of something new.

 

The place screamed minimalist with a hint of elegance -- the white marble countertops and columns throughout a unique touch against the wooden vaulted ceilings.  A marriage of opposites.  As they wandered around to a corner seat, tucked away, Draco wondered if Harry knew him better than he knew himself.  The notion filled him with a sense of peace, a feeling that he was certain eluded him long ago.

 

“This place is,” Draco whispered, unknowingly leaning into Harry, “unexpected.”

 

Harry smiled.  He knew he’d chosen well.

 

“The food is delicious - the spiced Christmas crackers, in particular.  Don’t even get me started on their coffees and teas -- we may be here all night,”

 

Draco shrugged, offering the slightest smile before sitting down, gray eyes sparkling in the dim glow of light.  Harry had never seen anyone more beautiful.


	18. You don't have to face the cold alone anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 17.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

The smell of lemon and berries with a touch of mint wafted through the air around them, the soft glow of light brushing against strands of Draco’s hair, stealing Harry’s breath, though he couldn’t be bothered to notice.  Just as their waitress retreated to the kitchens, Draco nudged his ankle against Harry’s, the corner of his mouth turned upward, the slightest blush coloring his cheekbones.

 

“How’d you find this place?”

 

Harry brushed against Draco, floating in the wondrous timbre of his voice, childlike, eyes sparkling with things unknown, the thrill of discovering something new.

 

“Happenstance, honestly.  I was in this area with Ron not too long ago, because he’d heard of the bookshop and wanted to get a gift for Pansy.”

 

Draco chuckled, shaking his head, suddenly aware that he and Harry had Pansy in common, which birthed other ideas in his mind, all giving him an excuse to bump into Harry anywhere, brushing against his shoulder just so, engulfing him like a gust of pulsing winter wind before dissolving into the buzzing streets, remnants crushed beneath the shuffling feet of patrons heading this way and that.

 

The return of their waitress pulled Draco from his thoughts, his hands absentmindedly curving around the ivory ceramic cup, wincing as the radiating heat singed the pads of his fingers.

 

“Careful there,” Harry murmured, a soundless healing spell falling from his lips.  Draco’s hands began to tingle before relief settled in, a transparent film covering the irritated skin, the scent of cinnamon settling into his fingers.  “Healing salve,”

 

“Thanks,” Draco mumbled before biting his lip, his gaze downcast.

 

Not to be fooled twice, Draco waited nearly twenty minutes before taking a sip of his spiced almond milk chai.  The sweet, rich liquid exploded against his tongue, releasing flavors of cinnamon, almond, ginger and a hint of orange zest -- the holidays in a cup, warm, tinged with expectation and innocence.  The scents coated his throat, reminding him of the summer afternoons spent in Honeydukes, gazing openly at the orange cremes, truffles, and strawberry tarts, longing to savor the dissolving sugar granules on his tongue, the way they melted into his flesh, slow and easy, lost in the romance of youth.

 

Harry sipped his warm vanilla peppermint tea laboriously, stealing a glance at Draco every so often, their silence wrapped in the warm glow of light.

 

“Harry,” Draco finally spoke, “did Ron ever find a book for Pansy?”

 

Harry’s hand stilled, the lip of the cup halfway to his mouth.

 

“Unfortunately, no.  She’s a rather difficult person to buy for, and with this being their first Christmas together . . .”

 

“Believe it or not, she used to be impossible.  She’s mellowed out quite a bit, actually,”

 

Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“Wait,” Harry paused, covering his mouth with his palm, “you know what she wants, _don’t you_?”

 

Draco stifled a laugh, a smile threatening to creep onto his lips.

 

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Harry,” Draco shrugged, the movement slow and lazy, the warmth of his chai loosening his muscles.  The feeling reminded him of scalding hot showers after Friday afternoon Quidditch practice, the water sluicing down his pale body, skin tinged pink from the steam.  “Though,” he began, clearing his throat, “I have a few suggestions,”

 

Draco’s eyes sparkled, bright and alive as the hours passed, recalling memories of his finer Hogwarts days, practicing his potions in Snape’s classroom, the first time he’d brewed a proper draft of peace drought the during the autumn of fifth year.

 

“I remember being so proud of myself, feeling that sense of relief that I could _finally_ possess something again that had eluded me all summer,”

 

Harry turned his body toward Draco as he spoke, his palm resting flat against the black fabric of his jeans, chin perched just above his bent knee, not-so-subtly gazing at him.

 

“Why’d you need the potion to begin with?”

 

Draco quieted, his expression morphing into one of regret, longing for something elusive that he’d never get back.

 

“That autumn was the beginning of my initiation,” he whispered, notes of shame settling into the upholstery underneath them.  “I know everyone thinks it happened during sixth year because you began following me,” Draco swallowed.  “But, my father made some sort of arrangement with Voldemort, to protect their _operation_ from being discovered.  I didn’t sleep for weeks.”

 

Harry inhaled through pursed lips, instinctively placing a hand atop Draco’s thigh, warm and gentle, his ribs threatening to crack, to be free from the crippling weight of the silent apology simmering inside his body for more than five years.

 

“Draco,” Harry began, “you have to know that none of what happened was your fault.  Those orders didn’t fall from your lips.  Dumbledore meant what he said, that night on the astronomy tower.”

 

“How,” Draco breathed, “do you know about that?”

 

“I was there.  Underneath the stairs.  Dumbledore and I had just returned from hunting one of the Horcruxes.  He ordered me to stay below.  I saw everything. _I knew you wouldn’t do it, Draco._ ”

 

“But Severus,”

Harry nodded, solemnly, ghosts of the past floating in their pupils, skin illuminated in the soft glow of light, offering a new beginning.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, “walk with me?”

 

Draco responded with a soft nod, expression tinged with vulnerability.

 

Crisp, sweet air enveloped them as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.  The sky was dripping with black ink, ribbons of plum and burgundy kissing exposed patches of the atmosphere, nearly touching the stars, cradling their last breaths as they exploded.

 

Without thinking, Harry reached for Draco’s hand, threading their fingers together, filling the caverns of empty space between them.  A brief moment passed before he tried to pull his hand from Draco’s grasp, embarrassed that he’d assumed so much.

 

“Wait, Harry,” Draco murmured, the cold stinging his cheeks as he turned to face Harry, squeezing his shoulder.  “Don’t let go,”

 

The scent of almond and cinnamon still lingered on his breath, light and sweet, reminiscent of the moment Harry tapped into his magic for the first time in the middle of Olivander’s all those years ago.

 

They walked together in comfortable silence for some time before Harry spoke again, noticing the look of slight puzzlement in Draco’s eyes.  He looked just as he had during second year, shaking the miniature wrapped present in the middle of the Slytherin common room before sinking into the sofa cushions - weighing the option to keep or not to keep something that clearly didn’t belong to him.

 

Harry smiled.  “Do you remember, in second year, when Crabbe and Goyle thought you were the heir of Slytherin?”

 

Draco stilled briefly, startled by such an obtuse question, before he rolled his eyes, chuckling softly.

 

“Mmm, yeah.  Laughable, that was,”  He paused.  “. . . How do you know about that?”

 

Harry blushed.

 

“Polyjuice potion.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, shaking his head slowly.  Harry could feel the false-scold of a whisper flowing through Draco’s veins directed at him.

 

“Please, _oh chosen one_ , explain to me how you got sorted into _Gryffindor_ again?”

 

Harry shrugged.  “I was nearly sorted into Slytherin.”

 

Draco’s free hand covered his mouth, just before an intentionally overdramatic gasp escaped his lips.  He blushed at the first thought that popped into his mind.

 

“Always the tone of surprise,” Harry teased, knocking his weight against Draco’s hip, a playful shove.

 

It was nearly midnight by the time they reached Ladbroke Square, the black rod iron railings lined with lit garland, the glow of lights illuminating the ivory-pillared buildings, their shade of evergreen enhancing the sparkle of Draco’s eyes.

 

“This is me.  Temporarily, anyway,” Harry murmured, letting his hand fall out of Draco’s grasp before turning to face him.

 

“Temporarily?”

 

“It’s a bit of a long story, but one I’d like to explain to you.  There’s a garden just behind here,” Harry gestured with the tilt of his head.  “There'll be sleigh rides in a few days, seeing as it’s supposed to snow tomorrow,”

 

“Mmm, sounds . . . nice,”  Draco mused, waiting for what felt like an inevitable invitation.

 

“Would you like to,” Harry whispered, his mind suddenly seized by the awkward memories of asking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.  The slightest hint of blush colored his cheeks.

 

“Yes, Harry,”

 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, a small chuckle escaping his lips.  He wanted to stay suspended in this moment forever, watching Draco’s slow smile flourish into something warm and open, a welcome invitation to begin again.


	19. Buried for a night like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> The title comes from _'The Wisp Sings'_ by Winter Aid. The song is **lovely**.

The sunrise two days later was especially sweet, the glow of light spreading from night’s inky center, warmth settling flush against the windowpane, kissing Harry’s collarbone, brushing his forearm, birthing a tingling sensation beneath his skin.  A soft hum escaped his lips as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, positioning himself upright to get a glimpse of the white blanket covering the gardens.  The air was crisp with chill, the scent of clementine and mint enveloping him, trapped beneath the irreparable crack in the windowsill.

 

He longed for Draco to get a glimpse of nature’s beauty -- something he naively thought existed only at Hogwarts.  There was beauty in resting a hand against Draco’s forearm, pieces of his blonde hair settling just so on gray pillowcases, the sun mouthing at his skin, illuminating every scar, every mistake, an open invitation for Harry to lessen the sting, to feel the magic flowing underneath the surface of pale flesh, pulsing against his tongue, warm and fleeting -- a desirous chase.

 

Smiling to himself, he reached for his glasses and wand on the bedside table.  As he closed his eyes, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth, he thought of Hogwarts, his mother, of Draco -- lingering on his happiest memories, sweet melodic sounds enveloping his mind, reminiscent of the soft static of the radio Arthur created for Ron before they began hunting Horcruxes.  In the end, it was the memory from a few evenings ago -- Harry stealing glances at Draco in the coffee shop, mesmerized at the sight of his sparkling eyes dancing in the soft glow of light hovering above him -- that conjured his Patronus.

 

 _“Draco,”_ Harry murmured, name falling from his lips, warm hands cupped just underneath his jaw, catching it, fragile and elusive, like the constellation he was named after.  For a moment, he lost himself in its cadence, the startling realization that, if he could, he’d welcome Draco’s name as it tumbled forth, leaping from his tongue, wedging itself between their bodies, syllables nearly kissing skin, until they were nothing more than exploding stars above London, infinitely suspended in the atmosphere.  He cocked his head to the side to quell the shiver rising from within.

 

_‘I hope this finds you well.  Would you still like to go for that sleigh ride?_

_If so, here’s my address.  See you soon, maybe.’_

 

He waved his Patronus off in Draco’s direction, his body alight with nervous anticipation, the sun’s shadow hanging above his bare skin as he paced the room, the hardwood floors echoing his muddled steps.

 

An hour later, the soft knock against the ivory wood of Harry’s front door startled him so that he nearly knocked his coffee cup off of the kitchen island with his elbow.

 

“Merlin,” he whispered, stumbling toward the door, the top two buttons of his navy henley undone, charcoal gray joggers hanging loosely on his hips, revealing the tiniest patch of skin.

 

His breath caught as he opened the door, gaze fixed on Draco in front of him.  He wore a chai-colored cable-knit jumper with maroon tinted corduroys, nearly the color of Gryffindor, though tinged with a bit more plum, like the sweetest muscadine coating his throat as it slid down, its slight sting invigorating the senses.

 

“Someone’s an early riser,” Draco teased, his mouth turning upward at the corners.

 

Harry blushed as if he’d been swept away by a gust of cold air, blood pulsing beneath his skin.

 

“I usually am, thanks to endless months of Auror training,”  he gestured for Draco to come inside, offering a sweet reprieve from winter’s bite.

 

Draco brushed past him, lingering for the briefest of moments before entering the eat-in kitchen.

 

“Your Patronus,” Draco began, mulling over words in his head.  “How . . . why?”

 

Harry sighed.

 

“Hedwig . . . died attempting to throw Voldemort off of my trail in the skies, days before I returned to Hogwarts.  I could never bring myself to use owls after that.  She was so much a part of me, the childlike innocence, the belief that, with magic, anything was possible.”

 

Draco nodded, reaching across the table, threading his fingers through Harry’s, rubbing small circles across his thumb.

 

“The world remains full of possibility, Harry,”  Draco murmured, “hidden in the beauty of a sunrise, woven through the chill of a freshly fallen snow.  It’s there, waiting to be discovered.”

 

Harry exhaled, surrendering to the melodic timbre of Draco’s voice.  Falling for him would change _everything_ and nothing at once.


	20. Because this must be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 19.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Morning’s minutes ticked by slowly, resisting the unabashed magnetic pull of time.  Every so often, Harry’s foot slipped from its perch on the metal stool, brushing against Draco’s ankle, a reprise of three evenings ago, his cheeks tinged the hue of fresh Parisian tulips.  Harry longed for the reverie of those quiet moments, bathed in a soft glow of light, daybreak reflecting against patches of skin reminiscent of pink champagne. Being with Draco was warm and comfortable, their silence entwined, looped, an invisible bow wrapped around their bodies, anchored only by the shadows of their past.

 

“So,” Draco began, his cup of hot peppermint tea halfway to his lips, “about these gardens …”

 

Harry nodded fervently, an attempt to disguise the fact that he’d forgotten the main reason for his invitation.  Draco’s mere presence at the table seized all of Harry’s functioning faculties as he found himself repetitiously hypnotized by the way Draco’s fingers curled around the handle of his warm tea, the way his lips pursed ever-so-slightly before taking a sip -- an open invitation for the warm liquid to settle on his tongue, releasing its sweet minty flavor, the soft vibration of his vocal chords sucking the marrow from its lingering scent.

 

“They’re something this time of year.  I could sit in my room for hours perched on the windowsill, staring at the depths below.  It almost seems never-ending.  Reminds me a bit of Hogwarts -- how the courtyard seemed absolutely endless, open, something to be discovered everywhere you turned.”

 

The admission found Draco smiling against the lip of his cup, fleeting though it was.  His stomach suddenly buzzed with nervous energy, almost too reminiscent of that night on the astronomy tower, wand pointed squarely at Dumbledore, shaking in his loose grasp.

 

“Show me what _you_ see, Harry,” Draco whispered, its echoes brushing against the tabletop, barely reaching Harry.

 

Harry swallowed, allowing two and a half beats to pass between them before responding -- his answer rushed, tumbling from his lips.

 

“Yeah, okay,”

 

Harry led Draco down the hall and up the stairs to his room, mulling over the oddity of it all -- he’d wished for this more times than he dared admit, longed for it, even, eventually resigning himself to the idea that it was never meant to be.  Hope chuckled at him from the cavernous depths of his mind dripping with uncertainties, its whisper echoing just beneath Harry’s skin, a sweet, warm reminder that he must never forsake it.

 

A chilled gust of air enveloped them as they stepped over the threshold of Harry’s room, the hardwood’s aching moan beneath their feet.  In an instant, Harry was home.

 

“It’s just here,” Harry murmured, his hand ghosting above the small of Draco’s back, guiding him to the window, to the garden of vast openness.

 

Draco pulled at his bottom lip with his teeth before turning his gaze upward, staring, for a moment at the reflection of their nearly touching bodies.  The mint lingering on his breath coated a square of the windowpane as he exhaled, the chill mewing softly, pleased to have caught its elusive prey.  Harry watched Draco’s expression morph into childlike wonder out of the corner of his eye, feeling slightly guilty to have witnessed such an intimate moment. Strangely, he felt drunk.

 

“This,” Draco whispered, wonderstruck, “reminds me so much of the manor gardens at home.  I used to hold mother’s hand and _beg_ her to let me pet the geese.”  A soft smile crept onto his lips as he recalled the memory.

 

Harry chuckled.

 

“Of _course_ you had geese.  I can see you now, waddling around the gardens, tripping over your feet every so often, yet somehow, picture perfect.”

 

Draco turned, then, his gaze focused solely on Harry, as if he was just seeing him for the first time.

 

“For your information,” Draco began, a tinge of false-haughtiness to his voice, “I did not waddle.”

 

“Mmmm, whatever you say, Draco,” Harry teased, shoving him slightly with his hipbone.

 

Draco turned his attention back toward the gardens, though he was still watching Harry out of the corner of his eye.  The slightest bit of movement from beneath the canopied bare trees caught his attention, his eyes alight with a sudden rush of excitement.

 

“Some sleigh, huh?” Harry mumbled, fighting back a smile.

 

Draco curled his thumbs into his palm, a sharp inhale escaping his lips.

 

“What time is the first ride?”

 

Harry grinned, a hint of mischief flashing in his eyes.

 

“Now, Draco.  Let’s go,”  Harry offered his arm, but Draco reached for his hand instead, threading their fingers together.

 

By the time they reached the back garden, snow had just begun to fall. Soft flakes enveloped them, bubbled in their own little garden of magic.

 

Halfway across London, Big Ben chimed, its melodic echo reverberating throughout the city.  In their reverie, Harry felt the faintest vibration of chimes against his skin.


	21. Fractions and lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 20.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. 
> 
> I'm going out of town tomorrow until the new year, but I will still post. I'm thinking of continuing this series past Christmas, but we'll see how it goes.

Harry and Draco walked through the snow-covered garden of Ladbroke Square hand in hand, the snow dusting their hair like confetti, moist and sweet, the scent of iced clementine enveloping them, thawing boyish desires buried in the depths of their chest.   The sleigh’s curved back reminded Harry of being perched atop Buckbeak as they skimmed across the body of water surrounding Hogwarts all those years ago -- the atmosphere kissing his skin just so, open-mouthed and breathy.  He was surrounded by an umbrella of magic, tinged with innocence, hints of possibility, its cautious warnings still grounding him to the earth.

 

While he gazed at the sleigh openly, Draco stepped back a few paces, never letting go of Harry’s hand.  Harry felt him seize with panic, his body tensing as if he’d been hit with a _petrificus_ _totalus_.

 

“I’ve got you, Draco,”  Harry murmured, stepping back from the sleigh’s nostalgic pull, his breath ghosting against Draco’s ear just as he squeezed his hand.  Draco relaxed the slightest bit, giving in to the temptation of Harry, allowing himself to be pulled onto the sleigh.  His cheeks colored as he felt the whisper of a hand settling across the small of his back.  Though Harry’s ever-present touch was faint, Draco felt it seep all the way into the depths of his bones, the warm aroma of honeyed cinnamon trapping even the smallest twinge of anxiety.

 

Winter’s chill nipped at their cheeks as they moved around the gardens beneath snow’s firm blanket, a freshly unwrapped quilt, foreign, longing for the perfect touch of a stranger, as they curled the edges of the blanket close, kneading the stiffness from the edges, feeling it fall away, an echoed whisper hitting the floor.

 

Draco bit his lip and squeezed Harry’s hand.

 

“This is magical,” he mused, wonderstruck, memories of his childhood and present-day weaving through his mind.  He hadn’t seen beauty like this since he was a young boy, awed by his mother’s compassion, driven by a steadfast longing to please his father.  The lines etched in his father’s face reminiscent of an obscurus -- beautifully contained, yet, mad.

 

Harry smiled.  He’d given up trying to be subtle about staring at Draco long ago.  He looked so much like the boy from their Hogwarts youth, yet, it was as if he’d been reborn somehow -- his sharp features and thin, strong hands disguising the man he’d always longed to be.  These silent moments, the sway of their bodies moving in time with the sleigh, Harry was sure he’d never seen someone more breathtaking.

 

Draco began to shiver just as the sleigh circled the gardens, coming to a slow halt.

 

“There’s a small cafe nearby,” Harry murmured, his cheeks stained the color of spring roses, raw skin itching to be soothed.  “They always have the nicest Christmas decorations, and there’s a warm fireplace,”  He thought, instantly, of Hogwarts.

 

Draco hummed, stepping lazily from the sleigh’s body, nearly falling into Harry’s arms.  His hands snaked around Draco’s middle, warm and pliant as if they’d been awakened from the deepest of slumbers, alive again.

 

“Sounds nice,” Draco confessed, the smooth, lazy timbre of his voice not yet seized by winter’s unrelenting grasp.  “Lead the way, Harry,”

 

Harry could feel their magic entwine beneath his skin, warm and strong, reminiscent of lazy Sunday mornings, tangled in sheets with cups of tea and a crossword, as protective as the seals on the vaults at Gringotts.  Easy, like flying above the Quidditch pitch, chasing something elusive, day in and day out, until it surrenders, the alluring pull of a warm, calloused hand too much to resist.


	22. Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 21.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> So sorry for the long hiatus. I was on extended holiday, but I'm back now! The rest of the series will be posted tonight.
> 
> ♥

Draco’s hand fell from the small of Harry’s back, curving around the brushed bronze handle of the cafe door, the weathered metal softening underneath his touch.  The warm, spicy scent of wood chips and cinnamon surrounded them, snapping the invisible twine around their taut muscles, thawing winter’s lingering kiss.  Harry was certain that he could fall asleep standing in the threshold.  Draco cleared his throat.

 

“Go on, Harry,” he murmured, the warmth beneath his tone nearly overshadowed by his cold breath settling against Harry’s nape, clutching to the pale patch of skin, praying for revival.

 

Harry stumbled forward, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, nearly running into a corner table.  Draco smiled.

 

“You always were so clumsy,”

 

Harry blushed, the tips of his fingers tingling with anticipation, seeking some sort of resurrecting warmth.  He paused in the middle of the small cafe, a slight sway to his gaze as if he were suspended in time, floating amidst the clouds, waiting to catch the golden snitch.  He zeroed in on the sound of the crackling fire in the corner, sweet nostalgic reminders of winter nights laid beneath the rug in the Gryffindor common room, the muted glow of light reflecting in his glasses, waiting for Draco to brush against him before seizing his hand, threading his fingers through Draco’s empty spaces, silencing the echoes of pale sloping caverns, discovering the answers to questions long unanswered the moment their hands locked together.

 

Harry smiled.

 

They settled on a cozy corner table, their heads tipped back against the windowpane after their second mug of hot tea, drinking in the warmth of the coffee shop, entranced by the memories of their youth.  The glow of the Christmas tree lights illuminated Draco’s pale throat, revealing a tiny half moon of sweat resting against his adam’s apple.  Harry was enchanted.

 

Hours later still tangled together by the corner table, Draco stared.  If Harry moved just so, Draco could see himself reflected in Harry’s lenses, as if he were plunging in the dark inky waters beneath the London Bridge, only to watch the soft golden glow of light vanish as he hit with a thud, piercing its core, watching from underneath as the light scattered across patches of water, their broken cries too much for Draco to bear before falling into a vast array of nothingness.

 

As the sun rose, pieces of light surrendered to the sea, the wind’s lazy sway pulling them further apart with each passing minute.  The familiar glow of light arrived each evening, brushing against the brick before slithering into the sea, their enticing pools of warmth reborn, whispers echoing against Draco’s ear, Harry’s voice, full and sweet, settling in his veins like raw honey.

 

When Harry’s fingertips grazed Draco’s jaw, he sighed before leaning into the touch, a quiet, beautiful surrender to the inevitability of their lives.


	23. The fall, the lift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry invites Draco to Christmas Dinner at Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

An insistent tapping woke Draco from his slumber two days later.  He longed to stay burrowed underneath the covers, basking in the sweet, warm reverie of the time he’d spent with Harry over the past few days.  The gray sky seemed to agree with him if only for the briefest of moments before stripes of dusty blue emerged from the shadows, creating a pathway for the sun, the tiniest ball of light, nearly transparent, kissing Draco’s skin.  An owl resembling Hedwig tapped again, its ivory body settling against the window, eyes the color of Harry’s hair.  A smile crept onto Draco’s lips at the thought of Harry, of their almost moments, charged with nervous longing, uncertainty, a steady undercurrent of familiarity, like the tide - sure and swift - though on the grayest of days, it would linger, waiting for that all-consuming release, the invitation to start again.

 

He’d linger with Harry on the edge of forever if there was such a thing, if time was truly infinite, if they could stay suspended in a single moment, above the dusty earth, watching the stars explode in the sky, the particles brushing against their skin, tumbling down and dissolving before touching solid ground.

 

Shaking his head as if to brush the thoughts off of the blank parchment pages of his mind, he padded over to the window and opened it, winter’s chill birthing goosebumps on his forearm as he retrieved the letter from the owl, stroking its head softly for a moment before pulling away.  He chuckled as he attempted to decipher Harry’s gangly scrawl.

 

_Draco,_

 

 _Would you like to have Christmas dinner with me (and Ron and Hermione, of course) at Grimmauld Place?  I’m not sure what your plans are, though I’d very much like to see you._  
  
H.

 

Draco smiled around his bitten lip, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks, slightly embarrassed and awed that Harry could, after all of these years, be the catalyst for his undoing -- unwinding threads tied around his organs that held him together just so.

 

Days later, Harry caught Draco’s gaze from across the table at Grimmauld Place, seemingly fixated on his emerald green tie, the way the slightest flicker of candlelight reflected in the grays of his eyes, the last of the exploding stars, tumbling from the atmosphere.  Draco swallowed, resisting the urge to fidget with Harry’s eyes on him, an act that his mother frowned upon when he was a child.  He curled his fingers around his fork, pinning the tiniest bites of food between the spear of his fork and plate, waiting for the levee holding his heart in his chest to break, rising and falling like the ocean tide, swaying in the breeze like the Hogwarts trees after a heavy spring rain, caught between surrender and suspension.

 

The sound of Harry pushing his chair from the table pulled Draco back, as he absentmindedly brushed his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.  Harry, with his glasses askew, messy hair, quick wit, and kind heart would be his destructive downfall, yet, his sweetest release.


	24. Illuminate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 23.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

“I remember,” Ron murmured around bits of food, “that night in the Forest of Dean, you’d never set foot on ice, Harry.”  Draco stilled as he watched Harry’s face morph into a foreign expression, one that made him nearly unrecognizable.  Draco felt his heart clench in his chest, unwilling to break the levee, to cross over the threshold, to lay open - a dusty tomb.  Pansy gripped Ron’s thigh under the tablecloth, her jaw set, the slightest hint of vacancy in her eyes as she glanced over at Hermione, immediately regretting it.  Hermione offered Ron a rueful look before it disintegrated into her glass of mulled wine, irreparable.

 

Harry sighed as Ron realized his mistake, handing over his glass, opting instead for warm tea.  Later, after the last of the embers were reduced to ash, coating the fireplace, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s torso, drowning in the feeling of his body vibrating against his chest, his heart beating in time with every intake of breath.

 

“Harry,” Draco murmured, his lips pressed against Harry’s hair, the scent of lemon and cinnamon enveloping him, threatening to lull him to sleep.  “I’m sorry.”

 

“Draco,” Harry shifted in Draco’s grasp, wriggling free, turning to face him, brushing a thumb against his lower lip.  “Stay with me.”

 

Draco nodded, his lips slightly open against Harry’s touch, an invitation, the beginnings of desire birthing in the hollow caverns of his abdomen.  He longed to extract the blood red ribbons of pain from his bloodstream, replacing it with the warmth of glowing wands, healing the open scars that the Dark Lord created in them both.

 

“Do you trust me, Harry?”

 

Draco felt Harry’s small nod brush against the slashed scars of his chest.

 

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, his voice tender and sweet, like his mother’s -- the tears streaming down her cheeks as she held onto the wooden bars of his crib, begging him to be brave, the cadenced repetitious I love you’s falling from above, settling into his skin, insulating his newborn body.

 

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into Draco.  He dreamed of Somerset House, the blue stripes of light pushing underneath the ice-covered cobblestone grounds, their hue identical to his Patronus - sparkling with hope.  He imagined his hands snaked around Draco’s waist, the two of them swaying gently, their bodies anchored to the earth despite feeling weightless, as if they were flying above the Quidditch pitch, weaving through the clouds, chasing each other’s elusive scent.

 

Draco’s lips pressed against Harry’s cheek, causing him to open his eyes.  His breath lingered against Harry’s skin - the faintest scent of cranberry and mint pulling Harry further in.  He yearned for surrender, to tumble into the depths of Draco’s body and mind, to repeat his mother’s sweet whispers - the vow unbreakable.


	25. Toujours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry return to Paris for New Year’s Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> I thought it rather fitting to conclude this advent series with another trip to Paris. Consider this an epilogue to **_I’ll do it all for you in time_** (day/chapter 15).

Draco traced figure eights on the underside of Harry’s wrist as the sun rose from its slumber, the rich hues of orange, pink, and lilac reflecting in the grays of Draco’s eyes, reviving their glow, banishing evening’s captive grasp.

 

Harry stirred, a quiet hum of acknowledgment buzzing against Draco’s skin.  Draco smiled, still lazily tracing patterns on Harry’s wrist before planting a kiss in the black nest of hair just above his ear.

 

“Open your eyes, Harry,” Draco murmured, voice draping around Harry’s body, low and drawn out as if he was weighing whether or not to reveal a secret.  His eyes flitted to their third dresser drawer, where he’d been keeping his and Harry’s Hogwarts ties, tucked between emerald and navy cable-knit jumpers.

 

Harry smiled as Draco’s face took shape in front of his eyes, his gaze lingering on the sharpness of his jaw, the angle and dip of his cheekbones, the outline of his blush tinted lips.

 

“Good morning, you,” Harry drawled, pressing his lips against the curve of Draco’s neck, his tongue darting out to swipe the salt resting just beneath the surface of Draco’s pale skin.  Draco shuddered, fighting the urge to succumb to Harry’s touch and close his eyes.

 

“Mmmph, Harry, wait,” Draco breathed, “we should . . .”

 

“Lie here all day?”

 

“Tempting as that is, I was going to say,” Draco pressed his lips against Harry’s for the briefest of moments before exhaling into his mouth, the words falling on Harry’s tongue, warm and sweet.  “Go back to Paris for the new year.”

 

Draco felt Harry smile against him before he captured his lips in an agonizingly slow, melodic kiss -- the sweet vibrations tumbling down their throat, resurrecting desire’s dusty cavity settled in their abdomen.

“Yes, Draco.  Let’s go,” Harry murmured, coming up for air, Draco’s essence surrounding him -- his thin fingers brushing Harry’s cheek before settling his palm underneath Harry’s jaw.  His smile illuminated in the emerald green of Harry’s eyes, stealing the breath from his lungs.

 

Bodies, thrumming with electricity, surrounded them.  The blue-tinted lights reflecting off of the Eiffel Tower, the stars exploding in the sky above them, their sparkle raining down, brushing the forearms of patrons before dissolving into the cobblestone street beneath their feet.

 

Harry’s right arm snaked around Draco’s waist, the pads of his fingertips digging into the fabric of Draco’s jumper, trembling slightly.

 

“Harry,” Draco breathed against his neck, “come with me.”

 

The ticking clock in the living room of Draco’s summer home, where they’d been weeks earlier, confessions laced in the threads of Parisian rugs beneath them, pulled Harry from the haze of apparition.  Draco pulled Harry to him, threading their fingers together, chilled lips brushing against his forehead before he stepped back to meet Harry’s gaze.

 

He paused, unanswered questions and whispered confessions suspended on his tongue, threatening to dissolve in the emerald pools of Harry’s eyes, twisting into the shape of holiday ribbon before they exhaled one final time.

 

Draco led Harry to his summer bedroom, their fingers still loosely entwined.  Harry shuffled his feet as he walked, allowing himself to be led, his body swaying loosely, remnants of the crowds lining the streets pulsing beneath his skin.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, falling back against the oak poster of his bed, unsure of what he was asking for, though he longed to be consumed by the man in front of him, the pith of his feelings threatening to overwhelm him, even still.

 

Draco nodded.  He understood Harry perfectly.  His trembling fingers gripped the bottom of Harry’s jumper, pulling it over his head with such care, looking at Harry with a reverie he was sure he himself would never deserve.

 

Little by little, pieces of Harry and Draco’s clothing littered the floor, their fingertips brushing a trail of patterns over exposed skin, unspoken longings planted with each touch, cocooning themselves in warmth until the first spring rain, the scent of tulips and lemon tea wafting through the Parisian air. Harry sucked in a breath as he traced his fingers over the scar etched in Draco’s skin, nearly transparent but tinged pink at his touch, regret etched in his eyes.

 

“It’s all right, Harry.  We were just children.”

 

Harry swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.  He opened them as soon as Draco brushed his lips against the patch of skin just below the bridge of his nose, attempting to erase past mistakes of his own.  Harry pulled Draco on top of him, releasing a huff at the sudden impact, his fingers curling around Draco’s hips, longing to burrow himself in Draco’s body, breathing in the sweet minty air occupying his lungs.

 

The clock chimed in the other room, the ringing sound vibrating the floor, signaling fifteen minutes to midnight.  By now, the both of them were tangled together, patches of their pale skin tinged pink, their heavy, needy touches tattooed on war-ridden skin.

 

“Wait for me?” Draco asked, combing his fingers through Harry’s dark nest of hair.

 

Harry swallowed and offered a swift nod.

 

Nearly five minutes passed until Draco returned, the ties from their London home wrapped around his neck, the colors deep and rich against his pale skin.

 

Harry anticipated Draco’s question.  He was quite easy to read when he was nervous.

 

“I trust you.”

 

Cadenced echoes from the streets below matched the rhythm of Harry and Draco’s movements, palms pushing against skin, fingernails carving half-moons on chests, shoulders, hands gripping muscled thighs, tumbling into the depths of each other’s bodies.

 

_Five._

 

Draco hovered above Harry, strands of golden blonde hair kissing his eyelashes, his skin illuminated by the moonlight, the soft glow of Parisian street lamps reflecting against the windowpane.

 

_Four._

 

Harry closed his eyes as Draco moved above him, pinning his lower lip between his teeth, memories of their youth, of Hogwarts, flashing behind his eyes, the way Draco shifted just so, the pictures suddenly alive, bursting with color.

 

_Three._

 

Draco opened his mind to Harry as he lay underneath him, just as he had weeks prior in the middle of the living room floor.  He smiled, eyelids fluttering closed, gripping Harry’s biceps with such force, the veins in his hands tinged the same color as the Parisian sky, navys and plums tangled together amidst a sea of light.

 

_Two._

 

Harry swallowed thickly as ribbons of sweat settled against his forehead.  He longed to succumb to honesty’s push, pulsing just beneath his skin, catching in his throat before tumbling out, latching onto Draco’s skin.

 

“I’ve always . . .”

 

_One._

 

Draco chuckled softly, a smile forming on his lips as he caved to sweet release, the tension unwinding, warmth flowing freely in his body.

 

“. . . loved you.”


End file.
